


Don't Act Like It's a Bad Thing to Fall in Love

by nightwideopen



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blind Character, Blind Louis, Deaf Character, Deaf Harry, Fluff, High School, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, No Smut, Pining, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> Louis was born blind, completely blind, leaving him with nothing but the absolute blackness that his lack of vision produces. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Harry, on the other hand, is deaf. No sound can be registered by the two tiny ears his rowdy, chocolate curls obscure so well. </em>
</p><p> <em>The first time Louis and Harry meet, it’s sort of an accident. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Act Like It's a Bad Thing to Fall in Love

**Author's Note:**

> so like there's always fics about one of them being deaf and one of them being blind but I figured... why dont we have both
> 
> anyway I dont know anything about being blind or deaf, so any inaccuracies are my fault so feel free to correct me because my knowledge is literally limited to switched at birth and my vivid imagination
> 
> title from Not a Bad Thing by Justin Timberlake !!
> 
> **** Authors note that pretty much every time Harry talks/someone talks to Harry they're using sign language. if it's in italics it means they're only using ASL ****
> 
>   **Updated as of April 25, 2017**

Louis was born blind, completely blind, leaving him with nothing but the absolute blackness that his lack of vision produces. It doesn't bother him though, the fact that he can’t see, that his beautiful pale blue eyes (or so his mother says) are completely ineffectual; he can see things that other people can’t. He likes to call it his “inner sight,” sort of his gift. He can see the benevolence buried deep in people’s hearts, the bright colors on his blank canvas that their voices paint when they’re talking about something they’re passionate about. He can see people for what they are rather than the illusion of a fake smile that’s so easily overlooked; he focuses on the way their voices minutely shake when they’re upset. His lack of one sense heightens his others, and allows him to build his own world inside of his head.

Harry, on the other hand, is deaf. No sound can be registered by the two tiny ears his rowdy, chocolate curls obscure so well. He’d gotten a terrible sickness when he was only three, his mother having no choice but to let the doctors do whatever they had to to save him in spite of his hearing. He never lets it get to him though, the lack of music and laughter in his life; he enjoys reading people when they put so much emotion into the things they say. He loves seeing people get so enthusiastic when they talk about the things they love, things they hate, when they’re in a heated argument. He can see the things they’re really feeling in their eyes and in the lines of their faces, rather than the lies they’ll be spewing otherwise. The “I’m fine”s never fool him. Most of the people he encounters on a daily basis know sign language, but he usually prefers them not to use it, and with each passing day he gets better and better at learning what the little mannerisms and expeditious smiles mean.

* * *

The first time Louis and Harry meet, it’s sort of an accident. 

It’s been a particularly bad day for Louis. He’s lost his bright red cane and his sunglasses, he trips up the bus steps, trips _down_ the bus steps, and is now running late to his afternoon Physics class. As much as he appreciates the way the school trains them to be self-sufficient and able to navigate around with significantly less difficulty than they’d ever dealt with, he figures there should be a little more than four minutes given to a bunch of sensory disabled teenagers to get to every single one of their classes on time.

And Louis is usually pretty punctual, if not arriving just before the loud bell sounds throughout the hollow halls. However, today doesn’t prove to be his day at _all_ because he’s turning the corner he’s rounded perfectly so many times before when he collides head-on with _someone_ and he can feel and hear both of their books and papers scattering about the hallway. He all but bursts into tears with frustration, leaning against the wall and sliding to the floor with hands over his face. He prays that the person he’s bumped into can _see_ and distinguish their books from his. Before he can ask, though, a deep voice begins apologizing profusely over the sound of rustling papers.  

“M’sorry, oh my God. Are you alright? I should’ve been watching where I was going, Christ. Everything—damn it—everything’s everywhere. Ahh, are you okay? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.” The voice is raspy, unmistakably male, and just the slightest bit nasally and slurred to tell Louis that this boy is deaf. He speech is magnificently clear for someone who can’t hear, and Louis is impressed on a myriad of levels.

He can hear the boy gathering the books and papers, trying to separate their things. He signs that he’s sorry, that it’s his fault, that he was going to be late either way, desperately hoping the boy is looking at him.

He is. “You know sign?” His voice is impressed, and higher up off the ground from where Louis is crouched, so Louis guesses he stood up. “Reach out your hand.” He does and a second later he’s being aided to his feet. “You don’t have to sign, I’ve gotten real good at lips, I promise.”

Louis feels his books being pressed into his hands gently, and he can imagine that the boy is smiling.

“And you can talk,” Louis marvels. “Amazingly for a deaf person at that.” He laughs silently, just wanting the boy to see he’s not trying to be blunt or rude.

The deep voice rumbles with a laugh, low in his chest, and Louis just wants to get to class. “It wasn’t easy,” he agrees. “But yeah, I try. I imagine learning sign wasn’t easy for you either, considering you can’t see.”

_Cheeky_.

Louis just nods, grinning but inwardly dreading the extra work load that’s going to come from being so late. “I’ve, um, I’ve got to go.” He juts a thumb towards the classrooms, then takes off down the hallway, feeling along the wall for the fourth door.

When he sits down at his desk he feels bad for leaving so hastily, but he can’t let himself get distracted. 

☆

For the rest of the day Harry feels like he’s breathing through a straw. Not enough air seems to making its way into his lungs because the absolutely wonderful love of his whole life was right at his fingertips and he just let him slip through.  

He talked to _Louis Tomlinson_ for fuck’s sake _._

He was so kind, so genuine and everything Harry has been pining after for three years. He was just so beautiful and _perfect_ and Harry didn't even properly introduce himself.

He can’t help but feel a bit stupid though, for letting himself get so worked up. He has a spot of asthma, increasing the shortness of breath caused by the gorgeous boy. He’s never even interacted him before in his life, but Harry is a hopeless romantic who believes in love at first sight, and his beliefs correspond with the electricity that ran through his veins when their hands brushed just _so…_

He tells himself that maybe it’s just his hormones or the unmistakable bias he has, that maybe he imagined the spark he felt. It’s too cliché to be convincing, and Louis hadn’t reciprocated that he noticed the feeling. Harry is grateful then that Louis is blind, that he couldn’t see the dreamy look on his face or the flush of his cheeks. Besides, Harry had already been having a bad day, and his mind was just looking for a distraction. As soon as those obnoxious red lights had flashed, signaling his lateness, he’d given up on the day completely, and it definitely had to be some sort of defense mechanism in his brain and his heart.

So, as soon as Harry gets home, he’s trudging up the stairs and flopping uselessly onto his bed. He forces himself to forget about The Wonderful Blind Boy Who Knows Sign and his brilliant blue eyes. The film over his irises that leave his vision obscured do nothing to dull the shining cerulean that enraptured Harry so completely. The way there were wide and searching for something, anything, always. It tugs at the strings of Harry’s heart. Hard.

And of course the harder he tries to forget, the more the blind boy clouds his thoughts.

When he doesn’t come down for dinner, his sister comes up to check on him. Bless her soul, honestly, Harry would be lost without her. She doesn’t bother signaling her entrance (the bright light that flashes at the foot of his bed when someone triggers it) and lets herself in. Harry sees her in his peripheral vision, sitting up and gratefully reaching his hands out for the plate of food she’s brought along. He makes grabby hands at her but she just rolls her eyes, and he knows she’s remembering the time he was sick with the flu and she had to wait on him hand-and-foot.

It’s steak, his favorite, and he begins shoving it down his throat immediately. Gemma makes a disgusted face, her nearly identical features to his twisting up to signal her annoyance, and she sits gently next to him on the bed. He looks up at her and he sees her say, “Chewing helps.” He hums in agreement, but continues to scarf down the meat like his life depends on it, which. It sort of does. He’s starving.

“So, what’s up?” she pries. He knows that she’s probably not really making any sound, just mouthing the words at him. He wishes she wouldn’t. “Why didn’t you come downstairs?"

“Just talk to me, Gems. Sign if you have to.” He crosses his legs underneath him, has a piece of steak hanging out of his mouth when he shakes his head and says, “S’embarrassing.”

She slaps his knee with the back of his hand, indignant. “It’s _me_ , you idiot. We passed embarrassing when I walked in on you—”  
  
“Okay!” He shouts, face instantly burning red. “No need to relive it. And that’s only because you never fucking _use the system_.”

She laughs, high and bubbly. “Watch your language, little brother. The system is too much work, besides it isn’t my fault you sound like your dying when you’ve got your fingers up your—”

Harry groans, deeply, and it hurts his throat a little. _“Anyway_ ,” he bites out, “it’s just, like. I—uh. I ran into Louis today.”

“You _what_?!” Gemma shrieks. She’s the number one advocate of his life-long crush. “And what happened?”

To Harry’s dismay, he blushes, all the way up to his non-functioning ears. “Nothing.”

Gemma adjusts herself on the bed. “Alright you absolute idiot,” she declares, “Serious this time. I’ll be big sister. Tell me what happened.”

So, he recounts the meeting to his sister. He tells her the way his heart all but stopped, tells her how absolutely ridiculous he feels, asks her if what he’s thinking is even possible.

“Only one way to find out.” She has that glint of mirth in her sparkling brown eyes, the one she gets when she knows that nothing but good can come out of Harry pushing his limits. She’s going to tell him to step out of his comfort zone. “Find him, get to know him. Don’t be a weenie.”

“M’not a weenie,” Harry says, defensive. But he knows that the only way to find out of it was real or not is to encounter the blue-eyed boy once more.

☆

The next day at school, Louis is one lost paper away from flipping an actual shit. Ever since he ran into that _boy_ who knocked all of his books everywhere, he’s been a Disastrously Disorganized Discombobulation (he should start a club). All day he isn’t been able to find any of the homework his mother had so graciously sorted by when he had which class, his notes that he keeps in an impeccable chronological order are skewed this way and that (the feel of the crinkled corners and frayed edges are enough to nearly drive him to tears by lunchtime), and he absolutely refuses anyone’s help.  

“ _Fuuuuuuck—_ “ he groans irritably. He’s missed a step while scaling the staircase he’s climbed a million times on his way to his creative writing class. The late bell has already rung, louder in his ears than ever because he can’t be late, he _can’t_. He’s Louis Tomlinson, always on time, always organized, has to be able to get along on his own and fend for himself. 

Then this goddamn boy that he doesn't even know turns his world upside down and _how can this be happening?_  

Two of his textbooks have slipped out of his grasp and he’s got a snowball’s chance on the sun of finding them on his own. He sets himself gently down on a single step, pulling his knees to his chest, feeling the lump in his throat tightening. He doesn’t want to call for assistance, doesn’t want to crawl to find one of those emergency buttons that signal that he’s weak, that he needs someone’s _help_. He can’t do that. He’s Louis, he has to be strong, always.

“You okay up there?” A gravelly voice comes from behind him, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin altogether. It sounds like it’s coming from down the steps, so far away considering Louis tripped on the top step.

He shakes his head sullenly, ashamed that he’s about to admit defeat. “Not really.” He can’t help the venom that drenches his voice. “Could you please get my books? They’re ‘round here somewhere. Well. That’s if you’ve got a pair of functioning eyes.”

The voice laughs but Louis is still close to choking on his tears of frustration. “I—uh. Um… can you try to talk _at_ me, can’t see your lips too well from here.”

Louis turns his head towards the bottom of the stairs. “I’m going to be late.” He frowns, turning his head to the side, resting it on his knees. Being thrown off is taking more of a toll on him than he expected. He’s always been accustomed to living in the dark, but suddenly having this inexplicable inability to do the simplest things is making him _angry_. He doesn’t want to spend his life hating something that he has no control over. “Please. Just help me.”

He hears footsteps coming towards him, up the stairs. He thinks the person is wearing boots, with the way they clump with every step. 

"Are you alright?” And wow, that sounds familiar. Then he feels a hand in his, gently pulling him to his feet. He gets a little lightheaded, trying to stand up quickly, and stumbles. Two hands are on him then, and he hears papers falling. He wants to be mad, he really does, that this kid wants him steady on his feet, but his _books_ dammit. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the tears pushing at the back of his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers, tilting his face towards where he hopes this person is. “Not to be rude, but could you please just get m’books so I can get to class?”

“I—yeah, m’so sorry. Jus’ didn’t want you falling down the stairs. I-I’m sorry, I’ll get them.”

And now he knows who this person is. It’s the boy who took his life and upended it, screwing up the last two days for him. He’s angry, so angry and annoyed and just really really frustrated. He can tell this boy wants nothing other than to help him, with his soft words and gentle hands. So now he feels bad for mentally berating the boy.

He sighs. “It’s alright. Are you list— looking?”

“Yeah, I’m watching. Go on.”

“Alright. I’m sorry, it’s just ever since yesterday when we ran into each other—that was you, right?” The boy hums his assent. “Yeah, well it’s just everything got all disorganized and I hate asking people for help and my luck has just really gone to shit these last few days nothing’s going right and I just want to rip my hair out and—”

“Hey.” Louis cannot stand being cut off, but he’s rambling and this boy can’t hear the desperation in his voice so he doesn't get it. “It’s okay, just… Why don’t you skip this class, we’ll go to library and get your stuff sorted. Then, since this is last period, you can go home, and just like, chill. Plus, it’s Friday, so you’ve got the whole weekend. You can’t let yourself stress out over a few bad days. Take a break. C’mon.” 

Louis doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, if you want.”

He mulls it over for just a moment. He’s missed half the class already, it _is_ last class, and it is Friday. He hasn’t got much homework, so if he gets home early and gets a head start, he can just take the weekend as a breather. And Louis thinks he really needs it.

So he nods, immediately feeling the stress start to dissolve. “I’m, um, I’m Louis by the way.” He signs his name, one letter at a time, a small smile growing on his face. He feels lighter, like he can breathe now.

“Harry,” the boy says simply.

Louis nods, casting his head down towards his shoes. He makes sure to pick it back up when he says, “It suits you.”

The rest of Louis' day is surprisingly okay.

☆

When Harry’s finally finished sorting all of Louis' notes and homework’s, he’s nearly about to squeal at his stroke of luck. He thinks if he were about to die now he’d die a happy man. 

He learns quite a bit about Louis in the short hour that they spend at the library. He learns, first and foremost that Louis simply _cannot_ sit still. He’s constantly fidgeting, picking at papers, twiddling his fingers, and bouncing his knee. It’s cute as hell and Harry wishes he could hear the nervous laugh that Louis lets out every time he’s got nothing else to say.

When they’re about to part ways outside the school, Louis tells Harry, “I like you. You’re good company for someone like me.”

Harry can’t help but ask, “What do you mean ‘someone like you?’”

Louis just shakes his head and smiles at the ground for just a moment and _God,_ he’s beautiful. “That’s for another time.”

Harry feels his heart stop for a second or two. “So we’ll be doing this again soon?”

“I sure hope so.” And Louis' grin is so huge and bright and _sincere_ that Harry is momentarily blinded for sure.

_Sunshine_ , he thinks.

As he scales the bus steps, Louis turns to sign, _I’ll be seeing you_. It’s the last bus left in the lot for the day, so it looks like Harry’s walking home.

Harry watches the bus until it rounds a corner, and then he sets off home, his heart thumping in his chest, a skip in his step and a huge grin on his face.

☆

What Louis had said about “someone like him” eats at Harry for the whole rest of week that they don’t see each other. Louis gets back on schedule, or so it seems, because Harry can’t help but feel like he’s being avoided. It’s irrational, a little paranoid, and probably not true, but Harry can’t help it.  

Before his mother had found the special school he goes to now, he’d gone to a “regular” school. After years of home-schooling, learning sign language and forcing himself to learn to talk, Harry had begged his mother to let him attempt to be normal for once. It backfired on him terribly, and he’s regretted it ever since. Harry was—is—nothing but kind to everyone, kindly asking for help, notes, and always giving friendly “hello”s. He just wanted to fit in, make friends, at least pretend he wasn’t walking around with this, this _defect_. But all he got in return were sneers and sniggers behind his back that he couldn’t even hear. The teachers overheard eventually, and had sent word to his mother. He really wishes they’d never told.

Either way, his twelve year old self couldn’t understand how being so unconditionally kind could get him such bad treatment. To be quite honest, his seventeen year old self doesn’t understand it much either.

But he can’t let that get in the way, cloud his judgement of what Louis might think of him. He has a chance now, a chance at a real _friendship_. Ultimately he just wants to know why Louis categorized himself as a severe minority, whether he was talking about his blindness or otherwise. 

Luck is once again on his side that Saturday, while he’s in the park.

He’s sitting in his favorite tree, which now, after many years, has become increasingly indented where it used to just dip slightly to create a niche for him to sit in. He’s just there, reading _Savvy_ for about the millionth time, when he sees someone fall in his peripheral vision. Harry isn’t exactly the type of person to rush and help someone, but when he sees the glint of a red cane, just three feet away from a head of chestnut hair, he immediately shuffles through the leaves and branches to the ground.

“Louis?” he calls, unsure. But when he sees a pair of pale blue eyes and that perfect little button nose come into view, there’s no doubt in his mind that it’s the beautiful boy he’s been looking for for days.

He watches Louis' lips form the syllable of his name, face darting around in search of who called him.

“Yeah, it’s me. You alright?” He picks up Louis' cane and gently reaches for his hand, guiding him to his feet for the third time in a week.

“Thank you,” Louis says, although he looks like he’s whispering. “I tripped on my own foot, ‘cos I’m a fucking spaz.”

Harry laughs, feeling it vibrate in his chest. “S’alright. You’ve not even got one scratch.”

Louis just nods, his face unimpressed. “Well, um, it’s good to—” He holds up two fingers on each hands and crooks them downwards once. Air quotes. “ _See_ you again.”

Harry chuckles, trying to keep the mood light. “You too, of course. What have you been up to?”

Louis' eyebrows furrow down and he looks like he’s trying to come up with something that isn’t a lie but also not quite the truth. “Thinking,” he settles on. He bows his head and scuffs at the ground with the toe of his shoe. He wants to ask a question, Harry can see it in the way he minutely shakes his head at himself.

“Go on,” Harry urges. “Ask me.”

Louis picks his head up, eyebrows now hidden under his fringe, confusion evident on his face. One of Harry’s favorite things is seeing people react to how well he can figure them out. “How did you—”

“Body language. I’ve gotten scary good at it.”

“Yeah.” Louis is in absolute awe for a moment or two, before he catches himself and shakes his head as if to clear away his thoughts. “Sorry, I, um.” He makes sure to fit his lips around the words properly, over-annunciating.

“Louis, you can just talk to me. I can keep up, I promise.”

He watches Louis sigh deeply. Either that or he’s taking a deep breath to build up his courage. “D’y’think y’would _maybe_ wanna go’n’have coffee w’me sometime somewhere or something?”

Louis looks mortified and looks as if he’s about to repeat himself. But Harry catches every word, and grins. 

“Cliché,” he proclaims, heart racing in his chest. He wants to scream. “I like it.” He can feel the breathlessness in his voice. “You beat me to the punch, though. I haven’t got your guts.”

Louis blushes, deeply and Harry can see his breathing pick up. He actually wants to shout from the rooftops at how backwards this is, how weird and straightforward and almost too… soon? They’ve only just met, and Harry isn’t complaining, he really isn’t, but he kind of wants something before he and Louis go on a proper date. He can’t muck this up by diving headfirst into what he’s been too scared to chase after for years.

“Hey,” he says softly, “let’s sit. Over here, right, yeah. You’re good.” And once Louis is safely seated on the nearest bench, Harry goes for it before he can chicken out. “Listen,” and he can already feel his voice wavering. “I would love, absolutely _love_ to go on a date with you. I mean, if that’s what you’re asking. Quite frankly, it’s all I’ve been thinking about and _god_ , this is gonna sound so strange.” He cringes at himself, closes his eyes and says it. “I just, I wanna be friends first. Then, whenever we’re comfortable enough with each other, can we go from there?”

Louis nods, smiling softly. “I’d really like that.”

☆

Louis has secrets. As much as he hates to admit it, he does, and carries them around with him each and every day with not a single person to confide it, and it hurts. Sometimes, on particularly bad days, he wishes he can just tear the secrets right out of himself, wishes they were attached to the roots of his hair so he can yank and tug and be rid of them forever.

But secrets aren't a tangible thing, and they run much, much deeper. They bite and bruise from the inside out. And no matter how many times he’s been told, is always being told, it was an  _accident,_  he couldn’t  _see_  what he was doing; it’s still his fault, still her blood on his hands. Still his fault,  _all his fault._ Everything is his fault. 

Louis' sort of glad he’s blind, because it gives him an excuse to wear sunglasses that hide half of his face and all of his lies. He knows he has to wear them around Harry, Harry who can read people like nothing else. And Louis can’t let him in, can’t let him see the things that keeps Louis hating himself and everyone else. 

Either way, he's just going to humor the boy's game for a short while, because he's absolutely one hundred percent sure that he can't _actually_  like Louis. No one ever could. He'd been sure that the boy—Harry—would let him down gently, say he must've misunderstood.  But no, he'd actually been going to ask Louis out himself. Louis is almost offended, seeing as this is obviously something that would happen to him, be the butt of the joke. This boy actually plans on ripping Louis out of his reclusive state, to _hang out_ and be _friends_. Louis might be on the verge of a breakdown. 

He shows up the bookstore they'd agreed to meet at five minutes early. He knows he's early because he sits in a beanbag chair and opens and closes his eyes (simply because the smothering blackness never falters) one hundred times before there's a tap on his shoulder. Louis is immensely proud of himself for not gasping in shock and tilts his head up to where he thinks Harry is. He's polite like that.

"Hey stranger,” Harry's deep voice rumbles. Louis thinks he feels something shift inside of him, which, it's probably just nerves. He doesn't feel nervous, but maybe his head's just a little too disconnected at the moment. 

He stands up, reaching out to grip both of Harry's shoulders. Louis hears the very clear catch of Harry's breathing and Christ, this kid is really dedicated to his joke.

Louis pretends not to notice. "Hello." He lets a small smile dance on his lips for good measure.

_Two can play,_ he thinks. 

Louis' heart is telling him over and over that this isn't right, cruel even, that he's just too insecure to give this boy a chance. His head, though, is a mess of reasons why Harry would be doing this to him, why he deserves it. So he lets himself be lead to what feels like the back of the shop, tripping over Harry's feet, who mutters “sorry" after “sorry,” because honestly, Louis could walk more easily on his own through a maze of glass barefoot.

Eventually, Harry's gentle grip loosens and he guides Louis into a chair.

He clears his throat before he says softly, "Um, I wanted to get you something, and I thought 'hey we're gonna be surrounded by books' and maybe it'd be fitting to get you a book?" The whole thing comes out as a question that Louis doesn't answer. "So I did, it’s, um, it's a Braille version of my favorite book, and I thought you might like it. You don't have to read it now," he slides the book over, then adds quickly, "Or at all if you don't want to. It _is_ a children's book, but a good read nonetheless."

Louis momentarily wonders where on Earth he found a Braille version of— _Savvy_? (or so the cover reads) so fast. But after that fleeting thought he's panic-stricken, because he wasn't expecting a _gift_ , nor was he expecting the sincerity lining Harry's rasp of a voice. Either it isn't a joke, or he's a really good actor; Louis settles on the latter and proceeds with his thanks. He promises to start reading it as soon as he gets home with absolutely no intention of doing so.

Harry breaks the silence. ”So, what's _your_ favorite book?” He says it in a sort of I’m-actually-really-interested-even-though-I-sound-obnoxious tone. Harry really seems to be making an effort to spark conversation. Louis wants to vomit.

However, Louis just shrugs, pretending to think. "I'm not too big a reader, irritates my fingers after a while." He can practically feel Harry's frown across the table. Louis almost feels bad.

"Do you like music?"

And, well, of course he does, it's his one true escape. It's strange though, that someone who's _deaf_ is asking him this. He nods either way, because he's not about to lie on the subject of his favorite thing.

"Yeah?" Harry sounds excited now, so he nods his confirmation again. "I, um, yeah I do too. It's, sort of, weird yeah, almost wrong I guess but I like, read lyrics online, play it real loud so I can hear the beat. I think songs should be based on that and not just the music itself either way. It gives me less of a bias I guess, also a way to judge people on their shallow-ivi...tivity?" He's just rambling now, and laughs nervously for a moment. Louis can feel the restless bouncing of his knee and it's all highly convincing. 

"S' not weird," he assures. Louis thinks he's being too nice, but reasons it'd be sort of out of character not to be. "I think that's pretty clever. Most people don't even notice the lyrics are there." He scratches at his chin, hyperaware of Harry's rapid breathing and the sound of his chair squeaking. "So what's _your_ favorite band or such Mr. Deep?" He mocks Harry’s aforementioned tone.

Harry giggles, and it's... it's endearing to say the least. "Probably the Script, or like—”

Louis slips up then. "No, stop. I love the Script.” So he lets himself talk about how a lot of the lyrics aren't just for people in love, that it could be dedicated to your family and friends alike, so what? And if he lets himself tell Harry about the time he saw them in concert… so what?

" _No way_!” Harry stands up and towers over Louis with _the_ most ecstatic look on his face. Louis jumps a bit at the shout and leans back in his chair. He faces up at where he thinks Harry is, then hears several people shush them. He puts a finger to his lips and allows himself to laugh, because, well, it was funny.

"Christ, sorry." He lowers his voice. "I've always wanted to see them in concert. I've always wanted to go to _a_ concert actually. But Mum says it's a waste of time... and money."

Harry whispers the last part and Louis immediately catches on that Harry's tuition to their school probably leaves his family short on cash, something Louis' parents have no trouble with. They're always taking him and his sisters on lavish vacation, all children in private schools, always providing more than enough of everything. Louis spaces out for a moment as he realizes that all of that has nearly doubled since _it_ happened.

“—grateful for everything. Even though it's never much she's got to know I at least appreciate what I've got. Y'know?"

Louis nods.

Louis has absolutely no idea. 

"That's good. It's nice to— shit. It's nearly four. I've got to get going, Mum'll go berserk if I'm late again." Louis nods again, dumbly. He's pretty sure he's just sitting there, jaw slack, looking possessed or something. "D'you want me to walk you somewhere? Take you home?"

Louis pinches his wrist, hard, in attempt to return to reality. "Yeah, I—home. Thank you.” He may have his pride, but he’s still blind. Half-hearing himself tell Harry his address, his palms start to sweat and he just wants to cringe away from Harry’s hand on his lower back. He can _walk,_ just can’t see. Harry’s trying to be nice, he knows, but he’s not completely helpless on his own.

He’s afraid even, to trust Harry at this moment. He’s absolutely convinced this _person_ is playing him like a grade-A fiddle and he wonders if he should bloody kick the guy in the shin and make a run for it. He sees himself being hit by a bus and decides against it, hoping for the best. It doesn’t make him any less sure that Harry’s going to go home and tell his friends that he’s got this blind boy to ask him out, hook, line and sinker. And that’s what he feels like, a struggling fish that’s been baited in by kind words and gentle hands. God, he’s stupid.

Louis eventually feels the familiar gravel of his driveway beneath his shoes. Harry rings the doorbell and that god awful squeak sounds as who he hopes is his mother opens the door. Upon the door sweeping open, the three of them attempt to greet each other at the same time. Louis has to ignore the knot in his stomach as he fake laughs along.

The knot tightens when Harry speaks first. Louis clenches one hand around his cane and the other in his pocket. “Hello Mrs. Tomlinson,” Louis doesn’t recall telling Harry his last name. Of _course_ , he’s a stalker. But who would bother to take time to stalk Louis? “I’m Harry, Louis', uh, friend! Friend, from school?” Louis is getting secondhand embarrassment just listening to this. He doesn’t speak.

“ _Please_ , sweetheart,” Louis' mother corrects in her lovely, lovely voice. It’s always been able to soothe Louis like nothing else. Perhaps she spoke to him a bit too much while he was still _in the womb_. “Call me Jay, honestly. Sounding like I have some sort of authority over children is so not me.”

Louis' smile he’s trying to hide is genuine, and God, does it feel good to smile. Louis really loves his mother, above everything else. He feels her hand wrap around his wrist to pull him over the threshold. “Thank you for bringing him home safe,” she clucks. “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

He can almost hear how profusely Harry is shaking his head. “No, no thank you. I’ve best be going, I’m in a bit of a rush. Thank you, though. Appreciate it. Thank you, also, for… _havingsuchawonderfulson_. Bye!” Harry’s footsteps echo on the rocks as he runs away.

Alright.

Louis hears his mother shutting the door he knows to be oak and splintery. She then releases his grip on him. “He’s lovely,” she coos. “A real cutie, too.”

He just kicks off his shoes angrily as he drops his cane—as well as the book he forgot he’d been carrying— by the door. “He’s playing me.” He curses himself for letting Harry come here and charm his mother. 

She gasps audibly. “Honey, what makes you say that? He seems so sweet.”

“He wants to _date_ me, Mum. The ‘friendship’ he’s playing up is just to stop me from going so fast. Which, I don’t even _want_ him at all. Was just doing it for him. But he obviously doesn’t like me, I mean who would? I fell for it, Mum, I fell for it and asked him on a date and he _refused_." He spits it out all in one breath and proceeds to stomp up the stairs.

He gets halfway before he hears a shout of his name. It’s shrill and followed by, “Stop right there.”

He’s being regressive, he knows that, but he’s always admired the way children are so open with their emotions. And right now, he’s angry and annoyed and everything in between. Louis doesn’t want to stop and listen to her, doesn’t want to submit. He stops dead in his tracks though, not moving a muscle. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, hands balled up into fists at his sides.

“Come down here now. I need to talk to you.”

She simply walks away then, knowing Louis will follow. He does, too, trudging back down the stairs and dragging his feet all the way to the kitchen, fingernails digging into his palms. She always gives these kinds of talks in the kitchen.

When he gets there, she’s starting to make tea. He can hear the water running, the stove being turned on and the rattle of the lid on the kettle. He knows she’s not really paying attention to what she’s doing. The girls always tell him that she’s got this sort of tea-ritual, that she does the same thing in the same order every time.

She doesn’t have to turn around to know he’s there, as if she’s developed just about as much a sixth sense as he has. 

“So what’s all this denial about?” 

She’s gathering the tea mugs, the tapping of glass on glass deafening in the quiet room. She gasps, and Louis knows she’s run her hand over the small pink mug, the one with little blue flower stickers on it and a name painted messily on the side.

Louis pretends not to hear.

“S’not denial, Mum. It’s just the truth.” Louis picks at the wood on the stool he’s sat on. “No one wants to be with, much less _friends_ with, a raging lunatic like me.”

“You’re not a lunatic.” He knows she’s looking into the sink, just like the girls always say she is.

“I am, though.”

She sighs, long and deep, and Louis hopes he gets a massive splinter. “Is this about—”

He slams his hands down on the island countertop, reveling in the sting from the harsh contact on the linoleum. 

“Of _course_ it is!” he shouts. “Everything is about that! Don’t you _fucking_ realize that I have to _live_ with it? Every. Single. Day.” He stands up and moves to stand on the opposite side of the kitchen, can’t bear to listen to the rustle of his mother’s blouse and the muffled sniffling. He made her cry.

“I know, baby. I get it—“

He can’t take it. “NO! You fucking don’t. So don’t pretend to. For even a _second_. You don’t understand what this is like.” He gestures wildly to his whole face. “But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like me. No one ever will, bottom line. They don’t want to deal with this. Just let it go.”

Louis turns violently on his heel and begins to stalk out of the kitchen.

“Would it be different then?” He stops. “If you could see?”

He doesn’t turn around. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he spits.

His mother’s voice is low and soft, so, so soft. She can’t be angry with him. “If you could just see the way he’d looked at you.”

Louis laughs, coldly. “Funny.” He walks away then, up the stairs and into his room, ignoring his mother’s soft knocks and sobs.

This is her fault anyway.

☆

By the time Harry gets home that night, he’s on the verge of kicking a hole of exhilaration into his bedroom wall. Louis is _actually_ interested in him. Like, he’d let Harry do most of the talking since Harry has a terrible tendency to ramble. He’s extremely grateful that Louis didn’t cut him off or appear uninterested, even if he was. Harry is a bit angry at himself for cutting the… “meet-up?” short. He’d completely forgotten he had work today and couldn’t find a way to contact Louis even if he had intentions of changing the time.

But he got to meet Louis' _mother,_ and they're on a _first_ name _basis_. His own mother asks him over and over “what light of heaven is shining down upon him” that’s got him so happy, but he can hardly form words. So he ends up skipping in circles around her singing, “He likes me! He likes me! He likes me!”

Apparently he’s “acting like a lovesick schoolgirl” according to his sister. He can’t help it though, because the love of his life likes him back. _Requited love_. Nothing could ever be bad ever again.

☆

Harry doesn’t see Louis again until Tuesday. He catches him walking out of his last class of the day talking to Zayn… _something_. He pays enough attention to who’s on the honor roll to recognize him, but doesn’t have too great a memory to remember his last name. He’s only human, honestly.

“Louis!” he calls excitedly, waving and craning his neck over the people. He’s honestly excited to see him again, has been (embarrassingly) desperate to for the last three days. However, the momentary expression—of _fear?—_ that flits across Louis' face is enough to put a bit of a damper on his mood.

He doesn’t want to let it get to him though, so he tells himself that he misconstrued, that he was just imagining it. Louis was the one who asked him out, after all.

“Harry?” Louis' lips form around the word wonderfully and Harry’s heart swells with it. He turns back to Zayn, who’s tall and tan and _well._ “I’ll see you later Zayn.” And as he watches the dark haired boy walk away, Harry has to resist his immediate instinct to nod while reaching Louis. The butterflies in his stomach flutter around aggressively and it’s just a painful reminder of how stupidly in love he is with this boy he’s barely scratched the surface of knowing.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “S’me. How’re you?” He brings a hand up to his mouth in a very literal attempt to wipe the splitting grin on his face; his cheeks are starting to ache with it. He gives up after a second or two, then takes Louis' vision impairment to his advantage and allows himself to just admire his _face_ , from chin to the roots of (extremely deliciously colored caramel) hair.

“I’m good. Been better. But… good.” Harry vaguely registers the words, too wrapped up in the way Louis' northern accent envelopes his words so fully and perfectly with his thin pink lips. 

He may or may not be imagining kissing said lips when his tongue trips and says, “So beautiful.”

And he _thinks_ it comes out as a whisper, just barely letting it out with his breath. He immediately flushes, all the blood running from his face, knowing from the way Louis' eyebrows raise to disappear under his fringe that he definitely heard.

“Oh my God.” The worst part is that he can’t run away, can’t just leave Louis standing alone in the now empty hallway. “I wasn’t—not you, just th-those, that. You, I… _fuck_. I’m _sorry_.” Harry doesn’t bother covering his face, grateful that Louis can’t see the absolute mortification he knows is riddling his features.

Louis shakes his head though, face twisting in confusion. “Were you talking about me?” Harry sees him clutch his books just _that_ much tighter to his chest. He doesn’t know what to say.

He decides (after a few moments too many of hesitation) to just tell the truth. He nods out of habit. “I—yeah. I didn’t mean it t-to. Yeah. I really like you, Louis.”

The puzzlement doesn’t leave Louis' face like Harry is hoping: rather it intensifies and slowly morphs into anger. And he looks positively _livid._ Harry honest-to-God wants to dig a hole, bury himself in it and never ever let anyone see his face ever again. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes and this has all really gone to shit really fast. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. He watches through blurry eyes, hands fisted tight in too-long sweater sleeves, as Louis forces the resentment on his face to dissipate. He just really doesn’t know what he said so wrong.

But then Louis has that sincere look on his face, the one he had when he asked Harry on a date with him and really, he can’t be _that_ good of an actor. “No, no. Don’t do that. Christ. C’mon,” he reaches his hand out, “Let’s go somewhere and talk… I’ve got to ask you something.”

He rubs his right hand counter-clockwise over his chest. _Please._

Harry takes his hand, letting Louis lead them through the empty halls, the sounds of their sneakers undoubtedly reverberating off the walls. (Harry has heavy footsteps.) He feels himself giggle aloud at the irony of the blind boy leading the way.

“What’s funny?” Louis turns and asks.

Harry just shakes his head, mind reeling with the feeling of Louis' hand in his. “Nothing.” The doting smile returns to his face then, vision still a little blurred.

So they keep on, and Harry can’t help but notice that this trip is significantly more surefooted than when he led Louis to the back of that bookshop. Definitely a lot less tripping. Duly noted.

Louis leads them out of the school and onto his bus without so much as a stumble, and Harry doesn’t make a peep of protest. (He has a _gigantic_ sliver of hope that they’re heading back to Louis' house.) They sit at the back of the bus, their thighs and knees bumping against each other’s the whole way. Louis faces out of the window, fiddling with a peeling Braille sticker that he most likely put there himself. Meanwhile, Harry looks at Louis, admiring his soft features and feathery hair (resisting the strongest urge to run his fingers right through it), unable to repress his fond grin. They don’t say a word until they reach Louis' street and the bus driver calls out, “Tomlinson!” And it’s not awkward at all.

“Off we go, come on.” He grabs Harry’s hand again, and the shock emanating up Harry’s arm and into his chest is damn near enough to make him gasp a little… and Christ, he’s so in love.

Louis opens the door and hastily yanks Harry inside, dragging him up the staircase. On the way past the shoe rack, his eye catches a glimpse of blue, and he really _really_ hopes it isn’t the book he spent months looking for and even more months waiting for an opportunity to give it to Louis. It could have just been a magazine, he can’t jump to conclusions.

“Alright,” Louis declares, finally facing Harry once more. “Tell me, what’s this all about.”

He closes his bedroom door with maybe a little more force than necessary, judging by the way he cringes slightly at the bang it presumably makes. Harry is confused, to say the least; he has no idea how to answer Louis.

“What?”

“You. This. What’s it about?” He’s waving his hands around, like he can’t properly ask what he’s trying to.

Harry shakes his head, still standing next to the door. “I don’t have a clue what you mean. I—” He looks around the unkempt room, having the strangest urge to pick up the clothes and shoes and towels. “Did you start the book?”

It seems to catch Louis off guard, because he points at where he thinks Harry is (and he’s close, but a little to the left), opens his mouth, closes it, then walks towards his bed. Harry is in absolute awe at how he trips over absolutely nothing on the way. He almost having doubts that Louis is blind at all, were it not for the way his eyes never cast down, never focus on anything.

Louis sits and sighs, running a hand through his hair harshly. (Not the soothing way Harry would at all).

“I just—I just want to know, why, why are you doing this?” The look on his face is frantic, eyes searching for things that he’ll never find. 

Harry feels out of place in the quiet room, feels too big, feels like _he’s_ the elephant stuffed between them. He just doesn’t know why. He hesitates to cross over to Louis, but he does it, stopping right in front of him and kneeling down. The bed is low enough that his eyes come level with Louis' chin.

He answers Louis' question with a question. “What on _Earth_ are you talking about?”

Louis' breathing picks up threateningly, his nostrils flaring. “I’m going to ask you, one last time,” he takes a deep, shaky breath, “ _What_ are you playing at?”

Harry does start to cry then, when it hits him. _Louis doesn’t believe him._ Louis doesn’t think that he actually likes him and that _hurts_. The realization is a jagged blade to Harry’s fragile heart, the heart he wears upon his oversized sleeves for the world see. He guesses that’s the problem though, Louis can't _see_. He can’t just how much Harry is willing to give him. He’s blinded, literally of course, but also figuratively. There’s something else blocking Louis' ability to accept how much Harry blatantly loves him with everything he’s got. It’s heartbreaking.

“Why?” Harry whispers. He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud at first, but doesn’t take it back when he does. “Why don’t you believe me?”

The way Louis completely shuts down after that is absolute torture for Harry to watch. How could this boy, this beautiful and wonderful _person_ , whom he loves with all his heart and then some, this boy that he loves so much it scares him sometimes, that he falls in love with all over again every time he sees him, not believe any of this is true if he told him?

Harry wasn’t prepared for this. He was ready for rejection, for anything really, anything but the way his heart crumbles in on itself when Louis points to the door and mumbles something. “Get out,” no doubt.

“No, no, _nonono_. Don’t shut me out. Please. I’m here as your _friend_ , Louis.” It hurts to say, the words like daggers in his throat. “I want, I want to just—” He sure as hell can’t attack Louis with everything he’s feeling all at once. It’s too soon. “Can you please tell me why? Why don’t you believe that I care? I don’t understand Louis.” He’s really crying now. “I just want to understand.” It’s choked and broken but he knows Louis hears every word, even if he can’t himself.

He’s on his knees in front of this incredible boy, begging for him to open up to him. His back is starting to ache and his legs starting to cramp up, but he won’t give up. He moves his hands from his knees to Louis', hoping for it to come across as soothing. Instead, he’s granted a shove backwards. Louis doesn’t put any real, malicious force behind it, but the sheer fact that the love of his life is pushing him away feels like Thor’s hammer on his chest as he loses the tiny amount of balance he’d managed to scrap up and falls.

Louis lifts his head to make sure Harry sees when he says, “I don’t have _friends_. Just _leave_. I should have never brought you here.”

Harry thinks maybe his heart has just shattered into a million pieces. 

It takes everything in him to push up onto his feet and retreat to the door. Louis must hear his backtracking footsteps because he sits back down on his bed and starts to cry, silently, thin shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. Harry’s heart isn’t so much breaking for himself as it is for Louis. Louis deserves all the love in the world. All of it. He already has all of Harry’s.

Harry stands in the doorway and just looks at him for a minute, frowning. The amount of willpower it takes for him to get his feet down the stairs and to the front door weighs him down. And on the way out he sees the book, just sitting there, a few pages bent, looking carelessly tossed down. He picks it up and wipes it off, carefully tucking it under his jacket.

Harry runs the whole way home, dry sobs shaking his whole body as the rain pours down on him.

☆

Louis doesn’t know how he didn’t punch Harry.

He’s seething, sitting in his bed, hot angry tears falling down his face. No one’s home, he realizes. There’s no shoulders to cry on, no one to bring him ice cream, but he supposes it’s for the best. God knows the last time he was this angry it didn’t turn out well for anyone. He kind of wishes he could admit himself into some sort of institution right about now, never see the light of day again. (Figuratively, of course.)

He does this a lot though, gets angry with himself, let’s it boil inside him. He knows it’s wrong, knows it isn’t healthy, but he can’t burden anyone in his family with his guilt, with his anger and self-hatred. He hurt all of them, not just her. And that’s all he does is _hurthurthurt_. 

The absolute pain in Harry’s voice was enough to remind of him of that. Harry might not like him, might just be playing a joke, but it’s hard to fake that kind of rejection. Maybe Harry wants to be his friend, but like he said _he doesn’t have friends._ All he does is push everyone away. It’s easier, less messy, and no one gets hurt.

No one except for him.

So he curls up under his blankets (three of them because he’s always so cold), and cries and cries and cries. He falls asleep focused on the wetness of his tears on his pillow.

☆

By the time Louis works up the courage to get out of bed again, it’s Friday. He’s missed a shitload of notes, a shitload of homework, and just feels like shit in general.

God bless his mother though, for understanding these episodes, because once he’s cried himself to sleep it takes at least a week to pick him up again. This time is different because it’s the last day before exam week and he _needs_ to catch up over the weekend. A week of stress on top of stress is ahead of him and he just has to face it, even if he wants to flush himself down the toilet like actual shit.

The entire day moves in slow motion, a blur of papers and make-ups and the usual “where’ve you been?” from people who don’t actually care at all. There are days he wishes he was deaf as well, so he wouldn’t have to deal with human contact at all. Today is one of those days.

When he finally gets back home that evening, dumping all of his books and papers and then himself unceremoniously onto his bed, he just wants to _scream_.

So Louis does the only thing he can think off when he’s this furious with life. He rummages in the back of his closet for the MP3 player he hasn’t needed in months. He runs his fingers over the back of it, over the Braille sticker he’d printed out years and years ago to put on the back that reads: _Don’t let the sliver of your shadow be a cloud of darkness._ He was a pretty deep kid. He shoves the earbuds in his ears turns the volume up full force and plays his playlist entitled _Lost_ , which he’d specially designed for times like this, when he needs to find himself again.

The actual music of the songs don’t deter his bad mood, but the lyrics he’d handpicked hit home, settle in his heart and sit there, trying to remind him not to let the guilt eat him alive.

He’s halfway through the eighteenth song when he hears a loud bang.

He sits up with a jolt, tearing the headphones out of his ears and cursing the ringing noise that clouds his hearing. Straining his ears, Louis creeps to his door, peeking his head out and when he hears nothing he makes his way down the steps, one at a time.

He should probably be scared, that maybe someone broke into the house, maybe he’s about to die. But he’s heard that sound many times, the sound of the huge front door swinging open when someone comes home excited. It can’t be his mother, she’s much too careful, so it has to be—

“SURPRISE!"

And really, he should’ve been expecting to get tackled by three girlish figures as soon as he reached the sixteenth creaking step. His sisters pounce on him, and he can’t suppress the toothy grin that the affection causes.

“Hello to you too girls,” he says laughing. “And how _did_ you all manage to stay quiet that long.”  
  
There’s shoes digging into his back, but this is honestly what he needed.

“Mum told us that if we went in yelling and _then_ jumped on you we couldn’t get ice cream after supper.” Charlotte, ever the spokesperson.

“Amazing,” Louis declares. “Anyway, I’ve got one of Mum’s sixty-thousand inch heels in my bum, would you mind getting off me, then we could share a proper hug?” He really missed them while they were in France.

Daisy pipes up then, “Mum’s got news for you.” And they all giggle. Interesting. “Just _wait_ ’til you hear it.”

They get up off the floor and hug Louis one by one. He hears his mother come in, the clack of her heels, and he can almost _feel_ her excitement.

“So, I heard you’ve got news for me?”

She places a hand on his shoulder and guides him into the den. “You might want to sit down for this, it’s a bit much.”

“Unless you won the lottery and you’re buying out my favorite band I’m not sure it can be that exciting.” Louis crosses his arms and ankles as he settles into the couch. She gets excited over the silliest things, this can’t be too great.

She takes a deep breath, and it’s shaky. “Louis,” she starts. Then she stops. “Oh God—“ He can hear the girls giggling excitedly behind her and why can’t she just _get on with it._

“Oh, come on, just—”

“There might be a way to cure your blindness.”

☆

Harry lives inside a bubble of misery for a week. He let's it envelope him completely, not speaking to anyone and resorting to signing everything. He can't find the energy to put in the effort of decoding what anyone says to him. So Harry lives for a week like an "actual deaf person," as he puts it; no sound surrounds him for those seven days.

But on the eighth day of his silence strike, the following Wednesday, Zayn... _something_ (he still can't remember for his life) approaches him as he's leaving school. 

Zayn is only deaf in one ear, and refuses to wear a hearing aid (it says so on his plaque that the school officials hung in the main hall), so he flags down Harry and signs, _Can I ask you something?_ And Harry has to force his legs to stop walking because he's not about to be _rude_ just because he's upset. 

Harry doesn't quite have it in him to put his books in his bag to have a full conversation in sign, so he asks, "What's up?"

"It's Harry right?" Harry nods, somewhat deterred by the look of worry on Zayn's face. "Have you seen Louis lately?”

Harry hadn’t realized until now that Louis hasn’t been in school, which, how didn’t he? How could he have been so oblivious?

“He’s not been in school?” And he can feel the way his voice shakes.

Zayn’s face switches to concern then. “Hey, relax, I’m sure he’s fine it’s just, I have a project due soon and I need his… _expertise._ He usually helps me out with this stuff.”

The last time Harry saw him, Louis wasn’t fine. He figures he could go over there and check, but that’s got to be one level below stalker, and weird, and he’s trying to _keep his distance_. He sure as hell can’t go barging into Louis house and start asking questions like it’s his business. So he thinks rationally.

“Have you called him?” Zayn shakes his head, kicking a rock absentmindedly. “Would you? Later? And please let me know? Last time we spoke, uh, we didn’t leave off on such great terms.”

Harry wants to look down at his sneakers and hunch his shoulders and make himself look somewhat remorseful because _God_ he is. But he keeps looking at Zayn, watches him sigh, then sees a blonde boy bounding over with a grin on his face. He hangs himself over Zayn’s shoulders and says something really fast in an accent Harry can’t decipher. He’s wearing sunglasses and laughing at nothing apparently.

“This is Niall,” Zayn explains with a roll of his eyes. “Blind but acts like he’s not.” And he can’t stop smiling.

Harry politely introduces himself and turns back to Zayn, “Meet here tomorrow?” He just wants to get home and away from the sickening fondness.

Zayn nods and waves goodbye, turning to poke Niall in the stomach then kiss him on the mouth. Harry turns bitterly and practically stomps all the way home. _He wants that so much._

☆

The whole next day Harry is on edge. He’s all jittery knees and fidgety hands wrapped up in one big ball of anxious.  By the time Zayn’s crop of jet black hair comes bobbing into sight, Harry is about ready to puke all over the courtyard. It’s not that he’s _worried_ , because what could possibly have happened? Louis was upset, sure, but that doesn’t mean something _happened_ and yeah. He’s nervous.

Zayn is beaming as he walks over, and Harry immediately feels a thousand times lighter. He shoves his books into his messenger bag and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t feel much like talking at the moment; something other than words might coming out of his mouth.

_What happened?_ he signs apprehensively. Harry notices that Zayn has Niall on his arm and his whispering things to him. He really does _not_ want to know. At all. Zayn doesn’t reply until he’s two feet away from Harry and that says a lot.

_He’s fine, completely fine._ And Harry almost misses it with how sloppy his hands are from delight. _More than fine. He’s going to be better than okay, but…_

Harry raises his eyebrows and feels the knot in his gut twist up again.

_It’s not my place to tell._ Zayn looks minutely sorry. Minutely.

Harry just rolls his eyes. _Can I at least go over there?_

Zayn shakes his head, still smiling like crazy. _Give him another week or two, wait it out. He’ll come around._ Then he puts a finger to his lips and the same hand over his other hand that’s forming a fist. 

_Promise._

With that he pulls Niall away, and Harry vaguely feels like he’s just been visited by a wise sage or something equally mysterious. That boy is a walking stick and a white beard away from being a monk.

☆

It’s the week before Louis surgery and he absolutely cannot sit down. He’s naturally restless to begin with, always full of misplaced energy since he can’t play sports. Now though, now that it’s stacked upon excitement and nerves, he’s blindly cleaning the already spotless house a hundred times a day for no reason. He’s missing exam week, and tries so hard to study for when he has to make them up but he just _can’t_ ; he’s going to be able to _see_. He’s too busy wondering what the world _looks_ like. He’s not stupid though, knows that it might not even work, but he’s hopeful. And he’s excited. He’s going to _normal_.

He’s finally going to fit in.

“Louis?” His sister’s calling him down for dinner already. It’s Thursday night, his night to pick dinner. He chose macaroni and cheese because, well, he’s really a child on the inside. He loves his cheesy pasta. It may or may not be Spongebob shaped. “S’ getting cold!”

He groans anyway, warm in his bed and in the middle of half listening to _The Notebook_ (again). “M’ coming.”

He makes a grand entrance, “Hello my beautiful subjects! How are you all this fine evening?” He makes a sweeping gesture as well, falling gracelessly and dramatically into his seat.

And Louis knows they’re all smirking at him, so he smirks right back. He hears his plate he set in front of him and goes to bop whoever’s nose that served him. He misses.

“Hey!” Félicité whines. “That’s my _eye._ ” 

The anticipation bubbles up inside Louis. “I won’t miss next time.”

No one says anything, and they don’t have to. Louis can feel the happiness and relief that’s going through them; it’s nearly tangible. After feeling so vulnerable for so long, they’re happy to see that go. In all honesty, Louis just wants to rid himself of this omnipresent darkness reminding him of what he did.

☆

“So how exactly _does_ this surgery plan on magically curing me after so long?” Louis asks his mother later that night.

They’re on the couch, eating ice cream, and everyone’s gone to bed. They do this sometimes, just sit and have the television on and just talk. And Louis is so, so grateful.

She shakes her head. “You know what you were born with, yeah?” Louis nods. A thing called _congenital cataracts_ ,which sounds like a gross old-people thing. It got worse and worse as surgery after surgery never worked and then his mother finally called it quits. After a few years, she didn’t want to put him through it anymore, especially when she had another baby on the way. “Well it turns out, they’ve found a way to treat it for kids your age, despite the delay. There’ve been _cases_ where it actually _worked_ , Louis. It’s great.”

Louis smiles, snuggling further into the big blanket he’s got wrapped around himself. According to his mother it’s _purple_ and soon he’ll understand _color_ and that’s… that’s everything to him. Something as simple as that. 

“You didn’t answer my question, though. Did they tell you like, the procedure? I hate it when doctors try to dumb things down. Still too many big words.”

She nods. “They’re just gonna remove them. If I do recall correctly, ‘a small opening is made in the side of the cornea at the front of the eye through which the cloudy lens is removed using suction.’ Then they insert an IOL. Or, if you prefer, you can get glasses. But we’ll see.” 

Louis wrinkles his nose. “As gross as that sounds, it’s going to fix me. That’s all that matters, yeah?” His voice is considerably lower now, conscious of the ringing silence.

The thing is, he wants to be scared, wants to worry about _what if there are complications,_ _what if it doesn’t work?_ but the truth is, it can’t get much worse. He’s purely excited, there’s no other way to put it. He can hardly mentally prepare himself for this, this _new sense_ that he’s gaining. The world’s going to be completely different.

“This doesn’t feel real,” he whispers. He pulls the blanket closer and closer up his body until he feels it tickling his nose. “It’s gonna be like living in a different world.”

His mother reaches over and places her hand on his knee, and it grounds him. He’s been somewhere up in the clouds for days and suddenly _this is real_.

“One step at a time.”

And that’s how it goes.

☆

The day of Louis surgery, it rains.

He’s an absolute mess the entire morning. He’s all over the place, a whirlwind of nerves and jitters and anticipation. He can’t keep his breakfast down, and his mother shouts at him more than once to sit down and do some deep breathing exercises. 

“But _Mum_ ,” he argues. “I’m gonna get to _see_.”

They can hardly get Louis into pre-op because he won’t _shut up._  

“I’m going to need you to calm down sweetheart,” the doctor informs him more than a dozen times. She’s nice and she’s patient but Louis won’t have it.

“Oh my God,” he wonders, “Am I going to have to switch schools? Are they gonna let me take my exams? Does it give me an advantage? Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get to learn how to read for real. I can _watch_ television. I can watch The Notebook _for real_.” He’s silent for a moment. “Pictures!” he shouts like it’s an epiphany. “I can take _pictures._ I’m gonna be able to go to the zoo. And the aquarium. Oh my God what do fish look like? What if—”

“It’s Louis, isn’t it?” Dr. Way Too Nice asks. Louis can hear in her voice that she’s got a fake smile plastered on her face, but the tone she uses says otherwise.

“Uh huh,” Louis replies, smiling and nodding. They are extra nurses holding his shoulders down on the table because he sits up every time he starts a new set of questions and realizations.

“Louis,” and he can hear her give up the fake smile act. He’s not even sorry, he’s too excited. “I’m going to need you to quiet down and stay still, okay? Because if you don’t cooperate we don’t get to operate. Alright? Just, be quiet. Please.”

Suffice to say Louis doesn’t talk for next hour.

By the time he’s in the O.R, he’s got one thought on his mind, and really it’s just that he’s sorry. He wishes he could apologize to her for real, because she deserves to know just how much her pain weighs on him each and every day. He thinks he knows. At least, he hopes she does. 

The last thing he thinks before the anesthetics kick in is that he’s sorry he was born like this, and he’s sorry for what he did. He just wishes she knew how _truly_ sorry he is. Because he is.

And then he’s out.

☆

By the time Harry convinces Zayn to tell him what happened to Louis, it’s the day of Louis supposed surgery. He runs home and breathlessly begs his mother to drive him to the hospital. After extensive reasoning as to why Gemma absolutely cannot take him, she acquiesces. But when they get to the hospital, it takes Harry a moment to realize he’s not related to Louis whatsoever (which would be horrid if he were) and isn’t allowed to visit him. He tells his mother that she can go home, that he’ll wait and figure something out and that he might be a long while.

She sighs and hands him some money. “Just don’t get arrested, please.”

So Harry sits and watches the clock for three hours, fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Then he spots a little girl, blonde and with what looks like her father. She resembles Louis almost scarily, and he takes it as his chance. He’s good with children and knows he still has a baby face so her father won’t beat him up. Hopefully.

He approaches the girl, crouches down in front of her and asks, “Hi sweetie, do you have a big brother named Louis?” Her eyes light up at the sight of him and that’s got to be a good sign. She nods. “Is he here today?” She nods again. He looks up at her father, who’s giving him a very intimidating look. He stands up realizing that he really didn’t think this through at all.

He wrings his hands nervously, and asks, “Um, would it be possible if I could visit Louis with you guys? I—I’m a friend of his and I’d just like to see how he is. Then I’ll be off.”

The man looks at the girl and says something, then back at Harry expectantly. Harry groans internally. “Sorry, sir, I’m, uh, I’m deaf. Could you repeat that?” He gives a nervous smile, about to shit his pants. He hates manly men.

“I said, I don’t think you should. I don’t know you.”

“Right. That’s true.”

“But…”

“But?”

“I’ll ask Louis for you when he gets out of surgery and wakes up, yeah? The process might be a long one. He’s been here since yesterday.” He grabs his visitors pass from the woman behind the desk. “I’ll ask him if he’d like to see you. I suggest you don’t wait here forever though. Go home. I’ll have him call you. Or something.”

And he walks away. The little girl waves happily at him and Harry stands there feeling hopeful and pessimistic all at once. There’s no way Louis wants to see him, but if there’s a slight hope that Louis might give him a second chance, he’ll take it.

Anything is worth it for the love of his life really.

He’s so fucked.

☆

When Louis wakes up and opens his eyes, the first thing he registers is blackness. He heart immediately sinks, realizing that the surgery didn’t work and he’s doomed to be perpetually blind. It sucks, sure, but he’s only a little disappointed.

Who’s he kidding? He’s way more than a little disappointed and wants to cry for days as he pushes himself into a sitting position in the hospital bed. He hears a small intake of breath beside him, and at the same time a tugging on his cheeks. He reaches a hand up to inspect the pull and the stickiness and—

_There’s bandages over his eyes._

“Mum?” he calls in a tiny voice. Then there’s two hands squeezing one of his, almost so tight it’s painful. “I’m here,” she says, “Don’t take off the bandages. How’re you feeling?”

She rubs soothing circles into his knuckles. He whimpers. “Did it work?”

“I dunno yet sweetheart. You know as much as I do.” She drops his hand. “Let me get the doctor alright? I’ll be right back, don’t touch.”

He nods, and his mind is absolutely racing as he faintly registers the open and close of a door. _Should I be able to see a little light? Are the lights off in here? Could it possibly have worked?_

His whole body tenses when he hears the door open again and then a familiar female voice calls his name. 

It’s Dr. Too Nice. “Are you ready?” And Louis can’t do anything but nod again, faintly feeling a bit like a bobble-head. “We’re going to move you into a dark room, okay? We’ll keep the lights down, put them up just a bit at first and see how that goes. We don’t want to strain your eyes so soon.”

Then he’s being guided up and over to a wheelchair, and when the chair stops, his heart is rabbiting in his chest. _This is real_.

“Louis.” It’s his mother. “You have to relax, okay?” His lungs feel too small, but he takes a deep breath.

Soon enough, there’s fingers prying at the bandages over his eyes, and they’re peeling them back. He keeps his eyes shut tight, though, his heart might not be able to take the shock. He’s way too emotional for this sort of life changing stuff.

“Open your eyes, Louis.”

So he does, and it’s dark at first. He’s anxious, more so than before because this keeps being _dragged out to the max_.

He can’t take it anymore. “Can you _please_ turn the lights on?”

There’s a few beats of silence before there’s the click of a switch and the click of heels.

“Louis?” He doesn’t know if the lights are on or not, if they’re just about to ask if he’s ready or if it truly didn’t work. “Do you see any of the light at all?”

Oh.

Yeah, the lights are on, and no, he can’t see anything.

“I can’t see, no.” He rubs his hands up and down his thighs, praying and hoping that this isn’t it.

“Alright,” the doctor reassures, “Don’t worry just yet, you’re eyes are sensitive but maybe they need more stimulation. Don’t freak out, okay?”

Louis nods, his eyes starting to burn with tears. “Okay.”

He sits there a little longer, and he waits, and waits. After what feels like forever, he feels a tug behind his eyes, different from tears, different from anything he’s ever felt. He tries to blink it away, but after opening his eyes for the fifth time, he sees blotches of, _white?_ Is that what this is?

“I— it’s—” He struggles with the words.

“What do you see?”

He nearly chokes on his response of _something_ as shapes and outlines come into focus. Only then does he realize that the lights are too bright, and he uses his hand to shield his as they dim just a bit.

Louis is speechless, doesn’t know what he _can_ say, because he can _see_.

That’s everything to him and then some.

☆

Harry doesn’t remember much from before he went deaf, but he’s fairly sure he’ll never forget the sound of his mother’s voice. She talked to him a lot when he was younger. In the mornings, in the afternoon, at dinnertime, bedtime. She'd read him stories, tell him about her day, gently lull him when he cried. 

He’s also one hundred percent positive that she’s saying his name over and over as she shakes him out of his slumber. He sort of wants to throw a fit, because there’s a crick in his neck, his back is in  _knots_  and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to feel his arse ever again.

Ever.

But then he comes to the realization that it isn’t, in fact,  his mother shaking him awake to get ready for school or dinner. He isn’t in his bed, and he has no idea what time it is… or why he’s in a  _hospital?_

He sits up in the plastic chair abruptly, effectively startling whoever’s been trying to rouse him from his sleep, which, it’s a little girl. It's a little girl with blonde hair and suddenly everything's come rushing back to him.

_Louis_.

“I— what’s going on?”

The girl, who’s name he still has yet to find out, starts rambling on about something. Harry can’t quite keep up.

“Hey, wait,” he takes her wildly gesturing hands in his. “Sweetheart, could you talk a little slower? I can’t hear, so if you talk slower I can understand you better, yeah?” She nods vehemently. “Thank you.”

“Louis is awake and everyone’s fretting, so I snuck away to come find you! You looked really sad when you couldn't and I hope he remembers who you are because I’d like for Louis to have a friend. Come on! I’ll take you to see him!”

Oh.

Harry doesn’t really think it’s a good idea to ambush Louis, but he really has no choice now, does he?

“What’s your name, love?” he asks, taking her hand in his and letting her lead the way.

“Daisy!” And she’s a smart one, because she looks right at him when she says it. 

The first sign that this little girl is a big part of Louis' life is that she signs the letters out with no hesitation.

He signs his name back. “I’m Harry,” then, “You know sign language?” Now he’s just making conversation. Might as well...

“A bit, Louis taught me! I don’t know a lot, but I know the alphabet real well.”

Harry swears that his heart would’ve burst had they not reached the room that very moment. The door is closed, but Daisy doesn’t hesitate to push it open and scurry inside. Harry watches through the small window as she disappears around a corner, and then reappears, probably noticing that her tall companion isn’t following in her wake. She pokes her head out of the door.

“Are you coming or what?”

Harry shook his head, but stopped. “Did you tell him I was coming?”

Her nose wrinkles in thought. “I didn’t, actually. I didn’t know your name until now.” She smiles suddenly. “But that’s okay! You guys are friends, right?”

“Right, but. Daisy? Don’t say anything, let me? Please?” Harry doesn’t think he’d be able to watch the horror spread across Louis' face at the sudden introduction. He’d rather ease into it. Even though he has no idea how to do that, he realizes much too late.

That settled, she grabs his hand once more and pulls him into the room. Harry, well, Harry’s a walking catastrophe-waiting-to-happen with two left, pigeon-toed feet and falls unceremoniously through the door, nearly losing his balance. He really can’t help it that his heart starts racing, because he’s about to meet Louis' family for the first time, and Louis. Who’s to even say the surgery worked? Maybe Louis still can’t see, maybe this is a horrible time for him to be here because Louis is disappointed and his family is disappointed and—

“Who’s this then?” And it’s Louis,  _God_ , it’s Louis' face that’s come into focus as he addresses the question on probably his entire family’s mind. He’s got a smile taking up half of his face, his baby blue eyes actually  _focused_  on Harry, wide a curious like a child seeing the world for the first time. Which, he is. Everything is new to him. And Harry’s heart actually skips a beat. It actually just  _forgets_ to do its job for a second. Half a second. But it’s still enough to make Harry a little lightheaded. “Is this the fit nurse you’ve all been going on and on about or...”

No one’s saying anything, because none of them know. They’re all gaping at Harry with same expression Harry’s wearing as he’s gaping at Louis, who still seems oblivious to the fact that something is, in fact, a little strange with this situation. Louis' mother is staring at him as if to say  _Why is Louis' nutcase of a friend from school that I’ve met a total of once here?_

Daisy elbows him in his hip. “Ow!” And, Christ, she packs a punch. She’s also glaring at him to  _get the fuck on with it._ Well, maybe not those exact words, but that’s what Harry’s telling himself.

“Um,” and he really doesn’t know what to say, “No, I’m not a nurse. I, uh. I’m a friend of Louis'. From school. It’s uh, nice to see you again, Mrs. Tomlinson.”

She perks up at that, seeming to remember. “You too. Though, I never did catch your name.” She looks at Louis, who shrugs, still grinning. Harry can’t believe it, he really doesn’t have a clue. Harry thought Louis would recognize his voice  _at least_ , but maybe now with his new sense, he’s not as in tune as he used to be.

Harry really is cornered, now. And he can see the confusion on Louis' face. It’s now or never, really. He has to tell them. He’s got five pairs of eyes on him, and one pair that are going to be clouded with anger, probably. Harry’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

“It’s, um, it’s Harry. Harry Styles.”

He feels his face flush red and watches with a growing knot in his stomach as the joy runs from Louis'. His smile fades and his eyebrows furrow, slowly but surely, until he reads nothing but realization and, as predicted, anger.

“Who said you could even come  _in_  here?” is the first thing he asks, sitting up suddenly like he's ready to leap from the bed.

“Your, um, sister I—” but apparently Daisy’s already answered the question.

“I don’t want him here,” Louis spits, the venom evident in his voice, even to Harry. “He’s not my friend and I don’t want him in here.”

Harry can feel the lump rising in his throat, the tell-tale sting at the back of his eyes.  _He’s not my friend_. Which, that’s what Harry was at least hoping for at this point. Even if he wasn’t absolutely, completely, insanely in love with this beautiful, sweet, kind  _human_ , he’d at least hoped they could maybe be  _friends_. He just wants to know Louis. And fuck if the rejection doesn't kill him a bit on the inside. 

He isn’t sure if it's blood or acid running through his veins, because the one person he’d never even had the courage to  _talk to_  for  _years_  has just gone and pushed him away. Hard.

He barely manages to mumble, “I just wanted to see if you were alright,” before he’s weaving his way around Daisy, around the corner and into the hallway. His can almost feel the reverberation of his rushing footsteps in the quiet hallway, syncing up with pounding of his heart. At least, he thinks it’s quiet, there’s no one around.

So he lets the tears the fall, stupidly, and he calls up his mother to come and get him. He finds out that it’s four in the fucking morning and that he has school in five hours. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want to do  _anything_. He wants to stay in bed and figure out what he ever did to deserve everyone hating him. Sure he’s a little different, a little bit of an outcast, a little bit scared to make new friends. He tries his hardest, though, everyday. He tries to say  _hi_ to familiar faces in the hallways, he tries to help people that are in trouble, he tries to sit with the people that are on their own during lunch. He tries and he tries and he  _tries_. But nothing ever seems to be good enough for  _anyone_.

Especially Louis. Louis who he’s ready to give his heart to at the drop of a hat. Louis that’s not afraid to speak his mind and correct teachers and talk to everyone in sight. Louis that  _everyone_  loves. Harry  _admires_  him. More than he loves him. More than he wants to get to know him. He wants to be brave like Louis.

So Harry stays home for a day or two, gathers himself, and returns to school. He goes back to his routine, back to doing what he always did before he bumped into Louis.

He just wishes he could forget like he pretends to.

☆

“Why did you  _do_  that, Louis?” Daisy shouts.

“Why are you shouting at me?” He turns to his mother. “Why is she shouting at me?”

It’s Charlotte who speaks up. “Because you’ve just gone and been a dick ( _"Hey!"_ ) to a perfectly sweet, fit boy who just wanted to see how you were doing.”

He sits up further, affronted. He will not be spoken to like this. Not on his Day.

“Don’t talk like you  _know_  who he is and what he wants. He’s been treating me like utter shit ( _"Louis!”_ ) since the day I met him. It’s nothing but a  _game_  to him. I haven’t seen him or heard from him in weeks and he just shows up here and expects me to let him stay?”

“Louis,” his mother just barely  _whispers_ , “What could he have possibly done to make you say that?”

Louis just wants to go and  _cry_  then, because what aren’t they  _getting_? Harry has been leading him on this  _whole time._  He fucking  _sorted his papers_ , then he just waltzes in and takes him to a bookstore,  _buys him a Braille copy of his favorite book_ , then he says he wants to  _take it slow._ He honestly thinks Louis’s an idiot, thinks that he can play with the blind boy that everyone hates. He thinks he can fuck with Louis' heart for a laugh with his mates.

And well, sucks for him. Louis isn’t _that blind boy_ anymore, he isn’t vulnerable, he isn’t different. He’s finally  _normal_ , Louis can finally fucking  _see_  the world that he’s living in. Louis can finally be the person that he wants to be, the person that he’s meant to be. All he’s got to do is put all the bad shit behind him. All of the people that have ever wanted to hurt him, all the fucked up shit he’s done and said and thought. He can let that go now. He’s not the same person he was yesterday, or the day before, or the last seventeen years.

He’s brand fucking new.

After his mental rant, he hasn’t got much of an answer.

“He keeps pretending to be my  _friend_.”

All three of his sisters say at the same time, “How do you know he’s pretending.”

And it’s not a question, it’s not a question at all. It sort of hits him all at once after that, the fact that Harry might be for real. He just can’t fathom it, though, why Harry wouldn’t be messing with him, why Harry would want to be his friend. They hardly know each other, and Louis’s hardly an interesting person. He can’t just want to know Louis. No one wants to know Louis.

“I just do.”

“Oh God, Mum, he’s at it again,” Lottie groans.

“I’m at what again?”

“You’re doing that  _thing_ ,” she sneers. “That thing where you think the whole world is conspiring against you and you’re not good enough for anyone. Jesus  _Christ_ , Louis. You  _are_  good enough. Does it really throw you off that much when someone just wants to be your bloody  _friend_?”

He doesn’t consider it for a moment, because it’s the truth and there’s really nothing to consider.

“I’ve fucked up, haven’t I?” Every single one of them nod. “I’ve got to go fix it, don’t I?” More nods. “Alright,” he relents, the nerves already twisting in his gut. “Just let me sleep.” 

So they leave him be to get some much needed rest, but the only problem is, he can’t sleep at all.

☆

It isn’t until Zayn approaches him, asking what’s wrong, that Harry realizes he’s been moping for a week straight. He’s got Niall in tow, mumbling  _things_  into his good ear, no doubt.

_Nothing,_  he signs hastily. He keeps walking, books clutched tight to his chest. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, he really doesn’t. He hasn’t for a week, and would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

He pointedly tries to not look at Zayn, but he’s not rude. Harry really hates ignoring people.

_You’ve had this face like someone killed your cat all week. Honestly, what’s up?_

He has a feeling that Zayn might know Louis better than anyone else.  _I went to the hospital to see Louis. It didn’t go well. That’s pretty much it._

Zayn’s face morphs into shock.  _You saw him?! How is he? Did it all go well?_ And it’s not about Harry anymore. 

_Yeah,_ Harry barely has to heart to sign,  _He’s great. It worked._

He wants to break out of his Louis-induced slump, he really does. Harry hates being miserable, hates having half conversations with people that willingly talk to him, hates stalking off to go home to sit in his bed and do his homework, eat his dinner and nothing else. He doesn’t want to live like this shell of a person, but Louis was always something he could look forward to, whether it was admiring from afar, or finally trying to become his friend. That’s all been ripped away from him, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s aware that it’s pathetic and maybe even a little shallow, but Harry always falls too hard, too fast. He can’t help it. He’s a lovesick fool when he gets the chance to be.

That’s why Harry’s so caught up in his thoughts on the following Monday morning that he walks directly into someone. His first thought is that this can’t be happening  _again_.

Only, it is, and when he looks up to see who he’s smashed into he’s met with two shining blue eyes that go just as wide as his own. The two boys immediately freeze in their gathering of their rightful papers, but only for a moment. Harry resumes gathering his things hastily, making a point not to look at Louis. He just wants to get out of there as fast as possible.

He’s two steps away when a hand grabs his arm and spins him around. They just look at each other for a moment, Harry taking in the fact that Louis' books and things still are strewn about the floor, his hair disheveled like he’s been running his hand through it. As angry and bitter as Harry wants to be at him, he’s still beautiful. His eyes are even brighter than before, a pale and bright blue at the same time, his pupils tiny pinpricks so that all you can see is the shine of his irises. But there are bags under his eyes, faintly purple, and Harry wants to know the cause of that. He wants to know why his eyebrows are drawn together like that. Harry is helpless to the way his heart and stomach flutter. He's hopelessly in love with a boy he doesn't know, a boy that doesn't want to know him.

_I'm sorry,_ is the first thing Louis signs.  _I didn't mean to say what I did. If you'd let me explain you might understand. And if you don't want to forgive me after I do, I get it._ After that, he lets his right hand drop back to his side.

Harry shakes his head.  _You don't even know what you're apologizing for. You don't get it._

Louis' face contorts at the accusation, nose wrinkling. It's so heart-wrenchingly  _cute_ that Harry wants to vomit. _I do get it. You're the one that doesn't know. You don't know why I did what I did. I just want to give you a reason. Because right now you're hating me for without one, I know that much._

Harry just rolls his eyes, because for fuck's sake,  _I could never hate you, you idiot._ He huffs a deep sigh.  _If you only knew._

_I don't,_ Louis signs gently, his hands flowing through the movements seamlessly. If Harry didn't know better he'd think the blue-eyed boy was deaf himself.  _But I want to._

That's more than enough to get Harry to crumble, putty in his hands.

The two boys seem to forget that they have classes to attend as Harry leads the way out of the school and four streets over. He takes them to the bookstore , the one where they had their first date.

Harry keeps looking behind him to see if Louis is still following. And every time he does, he is. He's looking around the shop in absolute wonder, and he probably hasn't even had a chance to read a book yet, much less be surrounded by them. It's endearing to say the least, watching a boy seeing the most mundane parts of the world for the first time. He looks like he's in love with everything.

Harry walks them to the back, to the same table, and asks, "Is this alright?" He wonders if Louis knows that it's the same place.

Louis nods, speaking while he signs out a single word, "Perfect." And that's all Harry needs to know he knows.

After a considerable silence, they both start talking at the same time.

“Look—"

“I—"

There's an awkward laugh and the clearing of a throat as Louis drops his head.

_You first._

“I—" He's not too sure what he was going to say, then. "I just wanted to say that what ever  _you_ say, I'm going to forgive you. I was never angry. I just want to understand."

Louis nods. "I'm going to sign, too," he says. "I don't want you to miss any of this.

"Now, being blind was really fucking hard for me. Like, there were days that I'd spend in my bed just hating myself for it. Even though I was born like that, and I never knew anything else, there was always something that made me know that it was holding me back and I was a different person than I could've been because of it. And then when I was ten, I did an awful, horrible, terrible thing and it just got worse. So much worse. I'll never forgive myself for it." His hands are shaking, and Harry's pretty sure his voice is as well. "For some reason, I was always able to convince myself that everyone and everything was out to get me, that nothing good could ever come to me. And when I ran into you, and you were being nice to me, it was like.  _Fuck._ I knew in my heart it couldn't be true. I knew that I was going to end up getting hurt.  _Don't_ interrupt me." Harry had made to say that he could never do that someone. "And I know now that it was my stupid head, that I was too thick to see past my own self pity. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for pushing you away because I couldn't trust you. It's all I've ever done to people and I really regret it and I'm sorry."

He drops his trembling hands on the table in front of him, and Harry takes them in one of his own, wiping the tears from Louis' cheeks with the other. 

"It's okay, yeah? It's perfectly okay. Don't cry." He slides his chair right up next to Louis' and is pleasantly surprised when Louis wraps his arms around his waist and rests his forehead on Harry's shoulder. "I don't want you to feel like that. You're not stupid, alright? It's gonna be fine, I promise. As long as you let me, I'll be your friend. Cross my heart."

Louis seems to forget himself for a moment, saying something into Harry's shoulder that he feels but doesn't hear.

"What's that?"

"I'll let you. From now on. You're all I've got."

Harry has a million things running through his head at that, but he doesn't latch onto a single thought, doesn't press the matter. He just holds Louis, reveling in the moment. It's a moment he's wanted for so long.

After Louis's calmed down and Harry has cracked enough jokes to get the boy to smile, Harry walks him home. He tosses an arm over Louis' shoulder, heart swelling when Louis doesn't push away, but grabs Harry's dangling hand in his own.

Harry doesn't want to get his hopes up that this is forever, but he hopes it can be. It feels like home.

☆

Later, when Louis is lying in bed, staring at the glow in the dark stars he'd begged his mother to buy, he realizes that she was right. She was right that being able to see the way Harry looked at him was all the proof that he needed to know that he wasn't lying. The genuine sincerity in his understanding eyes matched the rich promise that he carried in his voice, and Louis doesn't know how he didn't hear it before. His features were soft and welcoming, his smile blinding and he was just  _pretty._ Louis hasn't seen many faces in the first handful of days since he gained his fifth sense, but he's pretty sure that Harry's face is beautifully unique in more ways than one, and that Louis would very much like to see that face more often.

Louis feels like he's living in a cheesy romance novel when he falls asleep thinking of nothing but green eyes and curly hair.

He's disgustingly infatuated, he knows. But he doesn't think he'd want it any other way. 

☆

Louis’s sitting on a stool in front of his easel, painting long strokes of nothing in particular. He doesn’t know what colors he’s chosen, having just squeezed them carefully onto the palette and started painting. He’s recently taken up painting and drawing and art in general as a way to translate his thoughts into something tangible. And even though he’s able to do it… “properly,” what with finally having his sight, he still does it with the lights off. He _insists_ on always painting in the dark. It evokes the emotion from him better, he thinks, the reminder of his constant battle with the lack of a sense, with his guilt and confusion and fear. 

“Harry?” Louis whispers into the dark. It’s been two months since Louis had finally starting trusting Harry enough as a friend to let him into his life. They’re in Louis' garage, the doors closed and all the lights off. Even with Louis still getting used to his newly acquired sight, he sometimes misses the dark, the simplicity of not having to over-think everything he sees.

Somehow, he loses himself in the moment and forgets about Harry’s non-functioning ears. He claps twice in quick succession and waits until Harry takes notice looks over at him, the sudden brightness snapping his eyes from the book he’s reading (he’s been teaching himself Braille) to across the room where Louis is.

Harry’s voice is steady when he answers the unheard call, echoing across the room from where he’s perched on top of the bookcase. He likes heights, Louis has come to discover; Harry still hasn’t told him why, but Louis has a sneaking suspicion that it’s profound and intuitive, strange and unique, just like the rest of him and everything he does.

“Yeah?”

“Was just wondering,” he’s choosing his words carefully, hands stuttering in their movements; he knows Harry can tell, “Is there anything you’ve ever wanted to ask me? Like, anything. I feel like I’m, y’know, ready? I guess? To be completely honest and like, tell you everything.” He pauses for a moment, gauging the silence. “But only if you ask.”

“Only if I ask.”

“Only if you ask.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Harry slithers down from the bookcase, surprisingly graceful, as opposed to his usual clumsiness due to his gangly limbs. He was still growing, still getting acquainted with having more limbs than he was used to.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, pulling up the extra stool that Louis got specially for him. It’s three inches shorted than Louis' own, so he doesn’t feel so tiny. 

“I, uh—” Harry won’t look at him, his hands dropping uselessly onto his lap. “The second day we met. At the bookstore? That book I gave you. You never read it.”

Louis racks his brains for a memory of what he’s talking about. It wasn’t that long ago, but he forgets about things easily, now, let things go. That’s who he’s trying to become. He hates being stuck inside his head like he always was.

“Book? I-I’m sorry. I don’t remember.” He pats Harry’s knee, dipping his head to try and get Harry took look him in the eye. Harry lifts his head cautiously, and Louis repeats himself. “I don’t remember.”

The tears that gather in Harry’s eyes at that tear Louis' heart apart.

“I didn’t really expect you to, but it’s alright.”

He stands up abruptly, crossing the room to retrieve his messenger bag from its place at the base of the bookshelf. It doesn’t occur to Louis what he was doing, or what the significance of it is. 

He signs, _What are you doing?_

Harry just shakes his head, and pulls out a book with a blue cover. It’s small, most likely a children’s book, and Louis is still _so_ confused. Until Harry hands him the book. He runs his fingers across the title carefully, making sense of the raised bumps. It’s been a while since he’s read more than a sentence in Braille, but he’d never ever forget it.

The title reads _Savvy,_ and it sparks the memory in his brain, of Harry giving him the book, of how angry he was when he got home. He’d thrown the book down on the shoe-rack in their front hall and he’d never seen it again. He hadn’t thought twice about where it went, or noticed that Harry had _took it_.

“When did you—”

“The day we met, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen you. You had no idea who I was, and I knew that. I had that book for a long time, an embarrassingly long time, and I’d never had a chance to give it to you. And when I finally did,” his voice is shaking, “God, it was so special. To me. It meant everything that I’d been able to call you something close to my friend, and I— Jesus, Louis. I’m not trying to make you feel bad, this is meant to be a happy story, please stop crying.”

Louis is decidedly _not_ crying, but he brings a hand up to his eyes and wipes away the wetness anyway, grateful that Harry can’t hear his pained sniffles.

“Look, I meant that now that we actually _are_ friends, I hope it’ll mean a fraction as much to you as it does to me. Like I said, you don’t _have to_ read it, but I would really like if you did. If you don’t, I’m probably going to ramble on about it anyway at some point, though I’ll try not to. I know you hate rambling. It’s a good book though, it’s so good, and a quick read. And an easy read. It’s a kid’s book, not too many big words or complicated, um, imagery? Is that what it is? I mean, I should know this stuff, shouldn’t I? I think that—”

Louis is grabbing Harry’s face between his hands and kissing him before he can think twice about it. He doesn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before, the absolute kind-heartedness of the boy sitting in front of him. His selflessness puts pure envy in Louis, wishing he can be half as wonderful as Harry. How could he have been so _blind?_ Even if he was, literally, blind, how could it have taken him _months_ to finally put two and two together and see how much he means to this boy. Louis truly is an absolute fucking _dunce._

Harry’s eyes are still closed when Louis finally pulls back, the smile on his face refusing to fade. He’s laughing to himself, nose scrunched and all, because it was his first kiss, and it was absolutely _perfect_.

It’s a supernova in his chest, the explosion creating dancing light in the darkest corners of him. He honestly didn't think it was possible, to feel this alive. It’s new, pleasantly so, the warmth passing through him like the kiss was his own personal space heater. He just feels so inexplicably _happy_ , something he hasn't known in too long a while. Content with a moment, it’s _absurd_. This isn't his life, it can’t be. He has to be dreaming.

Louis has no way to make a witty comment, because Harry's eyes are still glued shut, so he just takes one of his thumbs and gives Harry a pig nose. His eyes shoot open, and he’s met with Louis' giggling face. Louis is sure his eyes are shining, as cliché at it is, because Harry is his newfound hope and joy for the world.

“Was that just to like, to get my hopes up or shut me up?” Harry’s voice shakes, and it rattles Louis' heart.

Louis rolls his eyes to replace the scoff he would’ve let out.

“I did it because I like you.” Harry’s stunned look remains on his face. “And because you were rambling. But that’s okay. I like it.” The confidence explodes in Louis' chest, his heart beating too fast but the words don’t stop. “And I like you.”

“Y-you _what?_ ”

So he signs it out as he explains it, and watches as Harry’s smile grows wider and his eyes grow wetter.

“I like you, Harry. I like having you around, and I like having you as my friend. I should’ve realized it a long time ago, but I get scared, with stuff like this. I’m not used to it. I’m not even sure I’m ready for it. But I want to try. For you. If you want.”

Harry shoots forward off his stool and wraps Louis in a bone crushing hug, nodding into his neck before coming to his senses. He freezes and pulls back, seeming to remember that he can _kiss_ Louis, which, he’s allowed to do that now. So he does, smashes his lips into Louis' and Louis can feel the happiness radiating off if him, can feel it in the way Harry’s lips aren’t moving, just pressing firmly against his own, his face nestled comfortably between Harry’s hands.

“You’re so incredible,” Harry whispers when he’s pulled back. His eyes rapidly flicker around Louis' face, as if he can’t quite believe this is real just yet.

Even though it is.

☆

Louis is almost scared at how easily he opens up to Harry in the few months after that, almost. Almost, because Harry treats him so gently, with so much genuine care that Louis hardly has enough space left in his heart to second guess if Harry truly likes him or not.

For Harry, it’s like a dream and a constant nightmare all at once. He finally has what he wanted, what he’d been constantly dreaming about and hoping for for months; now that he has it, he doesn’t really know what to do with it. He wants everything with Louis, of course he does, but Louis is still hiding something, he can tell. And he doesn’t want to put Louis off, or chase him away or scare him. Most of all, he doesn’t want to hurt him.

It takes him weeks to simply build up the courage to try and ask Louis what happened when he was ten. That thing that’s a scary and taboo subject for him. And it seems as though Harry missed his chance of ever finding out by not asking about it the one time Louis had been willing.

“Louis?” he tries, one night early in the summer. He’s still just grateful that Louis had been agreeing to see him after school and on the weekends, when he didn’t really have to. “So, are we like, boyfriends?”

They’re on the couch at Harry’s house, watching _The Avengers_ on mute because it didn’t come with captions and Louis refuses to hear anything that Harry can’t if he can help it. He has his back to Harry’s chest, so he signs his reply without talking even as he turns to look at Harry.

_I thought so… Do you want to be?_

Harry doesn’t have to give it a second thought. “Well, I like kissing you, and I don’t want to kiss anyone else. And I’d rather you not kissing anyone else as well.”

Louis offers a shrug. _So it’s settled then._

“Right,” Louis' nonchalance throws Harry off a bit, and he doesn’t quite know how to slip it in, “So, boyfriends means no secrets, yeah?”

Louis hesitates before he nods, and Harry knows that isn’t a good sign. _I guess so._

“What happened when you were a kid, Louis?”

Louis freezes right up in Harry’s arms, his heartbeat already picking up and thumping hard under Harry’s palm where he’s had it resting on Louis' chest. He’s caught Louis way off guard. There’s a good ten seconds of silence that rings in even Harry’s ears before Louis launches himself from the couch. Harry tries to hold on, but the vibration that runs through Louis' chest to indicate his shout has Harry’s hands retracting like he’s been burned.

“I-I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. I just, I thought—”

Louis turns around with a mix of fear and anger clouding his features. He doesn’t open his mouth to speak, probably for fear that he might shout to loud and it’d be in vain, but he might as well if his violent gesturing is anything to go by.

_Harry, you_ can’t _just ask me that. You didn’t want to know when I was ready to tell you. You can’t just pick and choose when you want to go ripping me open like that I’m not your bloody band-aid. It was a_ horrible thing _that I did, and I’m not ready now, I’m just not._

He pauses, Harry seeing the glare from the television make the wetness on his cheeks glisten.

_I’m sorry, I’m just—_ Louis takes a deep breath, _I should go._

And that’s only the first time that Harry asks.

☆

The second time, it’s the weekend before Louis is scheduled to go to France with his sisters on their annual summer trip. It’s going to be the first time the two boys are spending more than a day or two apart. They’re sat in Louis' backyard, on the hammock that’s never been used prior to Harry’s discovery of it. Louis finds it remarkable that it holds the two of them up as well as it does.

“Louis?” It’s during a moment of relative silence that Harry decides to try again. Louis has earplugs in to block out the sounds of birds as he sketches the outline of an abstract piece he’s about to start. Harry can tell it’s going to be his new favorite.

Louis feels the vibration of Harry’s question on the back of his head anyhow, and he turns his head around to look up at his boyfriend, so that Harry can read his lips as his hands were otherwise occupied. He pulls an earplug out.

“What’s up?” he prompts. All he gets, though, is two plush lips on his. “You couldn’t wait until I was finished?"

Harry shakes his head innocently and grabs the pad and paper from Louis' tiny fingers. He drops it gently into the grass underneath them and places his hands back on Louis' stomach.

Louis has grown exponentially more comfortable with Harry’s impromptu kisses and touches over the months, and Harry uses that to his advantage. He gently brushes his lips against Louis', letting Louis decide… where they should go from there. Luckily for Harry, Louis is one step ahead of him and uses his feet to scoot himself backwards and slot their lips together in the way they’ve done more than a handful of times in this exact position. Then lose themselves in each other quickly, and Harry decides that maybe now would be a decent time to delve into uncharted waters. He lets his hand drift down some from its position on Louis' hip, wriggling his fingers underneath the loose t-shirt. Harry feels the sigh that Louis lets out on his cheek and dips his hand a little further, fitting it under the elastic waistband of Louis' basketball shorts. He’s skating his hand down, down, down and he’s just about to—

Louis pulls away from Harry so suddenly that Harry jumps, startled. He’s wriggling away Harry’s got a bout of the plague.

_What do you think you’re doing?_

Harry sits there for a moment, silent. “Kissing my boyfriend?”

Louis shakes his head incredulously. “So then _why_ was your hand down my pants?!”

Harry has the vaguest impression that Louis isn’t actually yelling, what with his family just inside.

“Well, um, you kinda—” he gestures to the obvious tent in Louis' shorts, “I thought I’d, y’know, help you out?”

Louis seems to realize his overreaction, sputtering a few times before lowering himself onto the grass and bringing his knees to his chest. Harry knows that look; Louis’s about to cry.

Louis mutters something into his knees that looks, to Harry, like an apology.

“If you said that you’re sorry, please don’t be. I should’ve ask first I—” He deposits himself beside Louis, tentative to touch him, but placing a gentle hand on his ankle nonetheless. “ _I’m_ so sorry. That was- I- I’m really sorry. Hey, no, don’t cry. Please. I’m so, so sorry.”

“I’m just not ready.”

“Is it because you don’t trust me?”

Louis shakes his head and drops it back onto his knees. “I do, I just— I don’t know. I’m just not ready for _that_ until I can be one hundred percent honest with you. You have to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Louis, whatever you did, I promise I can handle it. It doesn’t mean—”

“No! No, you don’t understand. I-I can’t right now. I just can’t, okay?” And he grabs his sketchpad from the grass and runs back into the house.

Harry sits dumbfounded for a moment, not sure if he should follow him or not. After about a minute of pulling up innocent bits of grass, he decides on the former, entering the house and automatically going for the stairs. He doesn’t bother knocking on Louis' bedroom door, knows exactly where to find him. And he does find him there, in his closet, nestled among about thirty pairs of Vans. He doesn’t look up from where his face is buried in his arms, just tries to scoot further into the corner, seeking safety, trying to hide. It breaks Harry’s heart, is what it does, that he did this.

“Louis.” He pushes some of Louis' graphic tees to the side, trying to find a comfortable spot. “Louis, listen to me. I’m not ‘getting myself into’ anything. I want you to know that. I’m not going to up and leave because of something you did nearly ten years ago. You don’t even ever have to tell me if you don’t want to. But you have to know that you can trust me because I’d fling myself off the Shard before I did anything to hurt you.”

Louis nods slowly, acknowledging Harry’s words and still clearly crying. It’s dark, in the closet, and Harry can just barely make out the shadow of Louis signing _I’m sorry_.

“It’s _okay_. Come on, come here.” He shoves a large portion of the pile of shoes to the side, wraps his arms tight around Louis' trembling shoulders. He figures now is as good a time as any to tell Louis how he really feels. “I love you, Louis. I’ll be here as long as you want me around.”

Louis turns up to look at him, then, probably trying to gauge the sincerity of Harry’s words. When he finds no trace of a lie, he signs back, _I love you too._

That’s all Harry really needs to know that they’re going to be okay.

☆

It’s two weeks before school starts again, and the two boys are trying to cram in all the time they can together because Louis isn’t going back to the one he’d been attending for what would have been six years. They’re in Louis' room, Harry on the bed watching as Louis tries to find the perfect spot on his ever-growing collage on his wall for his latest piece. It’s a portrait of Harry, completely in colored pencil. Louis picked every pale, pastel color he could find, using flowers and abstract designs and patters for Harry’s features. There wasn’t a single “real” body part, and that was Harry’s favorite thing about Louis' art, because Louis couldn’t actually draw eyes and noses for shit, but when it came down it, and he improvised, it looked almost real.

“Right there, babe,” Harry input, “Next to the cotton candy dragon. The colors compliment each other.”

Harry watches as Louis dipped his head, shoulders shaking with his laugh. He turns to face Harry. “They actually don’t, but okay.” He tapes the drawing, making his final decision.

☆

Louis wakes up with a weight on his chest, but it’s not unusual, because he practically lives with that. What _is_ unusual, though, is the tuft of hair that he has to spit out. He eventually recognizes the sleeping mass that is Harry, and tries to shimmy out of his bed unnoticed. Which, that doesn’t work, because Harry stirs awake and cracks one eye open, very much noticing Louis' struggle. Harry doesn’t say anything though, just compliantly rolls over to release the squirming boy and just watches as Louis drags his feet all the way out the door and into the bathroom across the hall. Louis takes much too long to return, so Harry makes the executive decision to investigate.

After he trudges to the door, he knocks, and the door squeaks open upon the first bit of contact. Louis hadn’t even closed it properly, knowing (or hoping) Harry would come looking for him. Harry finds his boy in the bathtub just in the boxers and t-shirt that he slept in, knees to his chest, tears gently streaming down his face. As soon as he sees Harry he tries to retreat further into the tub, trying to melt into the tile on the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. He brings his right hand, balled up into a fist with his knuckles facing Harry, to his chest. He rubs three soft circles into the crinkled fabric of his shirt.

_I’m sorry._

“Oh God, Louis,” Harry whispers as he climbs into the tub. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, c’mere.” He moves to put his arm around Louis, but the boy shakes his head, keeping his intent stare glued to Harry’s knee.

_You don’t deserve this._

“It’s okay. I promise.” He takes a deep breath, his heart aching in his chest at the broken expression on Louis' face, at the way he’s curled up as far away from Harry as possible, like he wants to melt into a puddle and slither down the drain. Maybe he does. “Can I kiss you?” Harry asks in a gentle tone, leaning forward just slightly. “I just wanna make you feel better.”

Louis takes the same hand he’d signed his apology with and circles the palm of his hand just under his left collarbone. 

_Please._

Neither of them make a move, though, because Harry’s back is already feeling like hell and he can’t lean forward anymore. He stands up, nearly falling face first and getting a small smirk to break out on Louis' lips.

“C’mon,” he says, “Let’s go back to bed. More comfortable there.”

He catches sight of the clock, and evidently so does Louis. It’s nearly nine in the morning, and it seems as though the house is going to start waking soon.

_Can we go back to yours?_ Louis asks. _Please?_

Harry’s confused, because Louis' sisters never bother them, never so much as poke their heads in the door unless Louis’s being too loud shouting at Fifa, but he agrees anyway. They make the short walk in relative silence, and when they reach Harry’s house there’s a noticeable lack of cars in the driveway. Which means… no one’s home. Harry’s stomach sort of does a flip, but he can’t get his hopes up.

Once the house comes into full view, Louis starts walking a bit faster, and Harry finally takes notice of the hunch in his shoulders. He’s probably the worst boyfriend ever.

“Are you alright?” he asks once he’s shut the front door. Louis’s already shucked off his shoes and jacket and is halfway up the stairs. He doesn’t answer until both him and Harry are sitting on Harry’s bed, staring at each other, and doesn’t even bother opening his mouth. Maybe he’s beginning to realize that speaking out loud is a bit redundant. Harry doesn’t blame him.

What Harry does blame him for is the zing up his spine when he asks, _Can I have my kiss now?_

Harry’s grin almost splits his face in half. “Of course.”

The force of the kiss that Harry plants on Louis' lips makes them both fall backwards from the force of it. It seems that Louis is trying to keep the smile off of his face; trying and failing. He can hardly pucker his lips to kiss Harry again, and keeps giggling until they’re both laughing too hard at nothing. It hits Louis like a freight train that he could do this forever, just laugh with Harry because he just makes him so _happy,_ just being there being himself. It’s scary, but the ballon of joy and safety that inflates in Louis' chest takes up more space than the fear of the realization. 

Harry thinks that’s a little too difficult to kiss someone while you’re both giggling like mad, so he moves from Louis' lips to his jaw because, you know, he’s a compromising lad.

“Wait,” Harry feels hands pushing at his chest and he pulls back to investigate. “I wanna—” Louis' hands are still wound tight in Harry’s hair, “I wanna tell you. I’m ready.” Harry takes a moment to blink in shock before he scrambles off of Louis, crossing his legs when he’s sat at the foot of the bed. “Before you ask, I’m sure.” His face is pale though, fingers fiddling with his shirt. “Just… please don’t interrupt.”

Harry nods, pretty sure that if he was a cartoon his eyes would have popped out of his head by now. “Anything.”

Louis dives in the story with a shaky voice already, grateful that Harry can’t hear it. He signs slowly, making sure Harry doesn’t miss a thing. This is important.

_Louis wakes up feeling like it’s going to be any other day: remotely entertaining, slightly mundane, and like every day of year 6 has been so far. He goes to school, comes home, attempts to do his homework (doesn’t succeed) and patiently waits for his mother and sisters to return home because_ God _is he hungry. He’s starving. He’s going to die._

_Eventually, the five of them tumble through the door in a racket, catching his attention from the television playing lowly. He hears his mother putting away some groceries and then trudging upstairs after the girls, but like, Louis is really hungry, and he doesn’t know if he can wait much longer for dinner. So with a sigh, he wanders into the kitchen and immediately feeling for the fridge. He’s gathering the ingredients for one wicked sandwich and a small voice calls his name. The rumbling of his stomach overrules his instinct to be an attentive brother at the moment. Sue him._

_He’s like a whirlwind in the kitchen, trying to gather bread and deli meats and the snacks his mother’s only just put away. It’s an ideal pre-dinner, not one his mum would approve of, obviously, and it’s not until he’s almost finished does he make a mistake._

_Louis is_ never _ever allowed to touch the knives, steak, butter, or plastic, and his mother always cuts his sandwiches for him, but he’s_ hungry _. So he’s about to cut is amazingly made sandwich, if he does say so himself, when all in the sudden there’s a voice calling his name much too close, catching him off guard. He whirls around, knife in hand, blindly searching for the owner of the voice._

_In the next thirty seconds, all Louis registers is the feeling of the knife slicing through something, a piercing scream and the sound of four pairs of footsteps running down the stairs behind him._

_He’s in shock, to say the least, and when he registers what’s most likely happened, he panics. He drops the knife, trying to ask who was there, what had happened, trying to gauge the damage. He gets nothing but pained wails as an answer before he hears he hears his mother’s voice._

_“What is— oh my God. Oh my_ God! _”_

_For Louis, the next two hours is a mix of shouting and being shuffled around and car horns and sirens and words he can’t understand. He knows he’s done something bad, knows that he’s hurt someone, that it’s all his fault. He doesn’t get one bit of information about anything until it’s been what feels like ages and he can hardly feel his back and bum from the plastic chair he’s been sitting in for much too long._

_“How is she?” he hears his mother ask a few feet away. She hasn’t said anything to him this entire time. No one has._

_A strange voice answers her, says big words that Louis can’t make any sense of, couldn’t even repeat if he tried. He hears something about a “deep laceration” and “punctured muscle” and “surgery” and it’s just too much._

_His mother says “thank you” in a strained voice and probably sits back down. No one will sit next to Louis, no one will speak to him. Everyone’s angry at him, and they have a reason to be, a very good reason. This is all his fault._

_All his fault._

_And eventually him and the girls are taken home, and that’s when he becomes aware that one of the twins is missing. He has to ask._

_“Mum?” She sounds like she’s rushing around, but stops to crouch in front of him. Louis can feel the nerves radiating off of her._

_“What is it, love? I’ve got to get going, please ask me fast.”_

_“Is Phoebe going to be alright?” Did I really hurt her?”_

_It must be the shake in his voice that makes her want to soothe him rather than say_ Yes, you did a really bad thing. _She freezes up, but wraps her arms around him anyway, warm and safe._

_“Listen to me, she’s going to be fine. It was an accident. I’m upset that you used a knife when you_ know _you’re not supposed to, yes, but Phoebe also knows not to sneak up on you. It’s not either of your faults, but you both made a mistake. She’ll be okay, though, alright?” Louis can tell that she’s crying, maybe just trying to convince herself. He nods. “Be good, yeah? All of you in bed at nine. Mrs. Parker will be over in just a moment, okay?”_

_He nods slowly, only half understanding. “Yeah Mum, promise. Love you.”_

_“Love you too,” she kisses his forehead, “So much sweetheart.”_

☆

_It’s a week and a half of hospital visits and a circumstantially more silent house before things take a turn for the worst._

_Everything’s relatively okay on the rainy Tuesday that the kids visit Phoebe. She’s awake, happy, and recovering. That’s why no one expects what happens next._

_Louis doesn’t catch much of it, just the panicked cries of his sisters, rapid beeping, doctors bustling around and shouting things. His brain can’t process all of the sounds and he starts shaking. He knows something is very wrong and all he can remember is that this is all his fault._

_He feels hands pushing at his shoulders, him and crying sisters being herded none-too-gently into the eerily quiet hallway. Louis keeps asking questions to anyone to might happen to hear him, wanting nothing more than to know how to react to whatever’s happening._

_Later, when he hears the doctor report to his sobbing mother a series of more big words, the list of “complications,” the fact that they did everything they could, there’s one word he does catch._

_“Gone.”_

And by the time Louis’s finished, he’s crawled onto Harry’s lap and can hardly get through a sentence. He’s all runny nose and puffy eyes buried in Harry’s chest. Harry doesn’t know what to do, because all he’s capable of is letting Louis talk and cry as he holds him. Harry has a nagging feeling that this was the first time Louis had ever recounted the story aloud, and thinks maybe that was the root of the problem.

Louis, well Louis has the feeling that someone’s got a rope around his lungs and with every breath he takes in they tug at it, hard. He can’t properly inhale, can’t get his words to make sense.

He keeps mumbling _all my fault_ and _I didn’t mean_ _to_ but it doesn’t really matter, because Harry can’t hear him, his mother can’t hear him, Phoebe can’t hear him. So he keeps saying it.

Eventually, Harry does notice the ongoing vibration in neck, notices Louis shaking his head over and over, the way he’s shaking bodily. He pulls Louis back, trying to investigate, but Louis resists, covering his face with his sweater paws, trying to put his face back in the crook of Harry’s neck where he feels safest.

“Louis? Hey, love, look at me.” But he just keeps shaking his head, mumbling over and over into his hands, trembling so much that Harry just holds on tighter, trying to get it to stop. Harry can’t even hope to make out what he’s saying while he’s in this state. “Louis, you need to breathe. Listen to me. It’s _okay_ , it’s alright. Lay down, babe, just breathe for me, can you do that?”

It gets Louis to stop shaking his head as Harry tries to lower him onto his back, but Louis latches onto Harry’s neck, like if he lets go he’ll just fall apart. So Harry turns himself around and leans against the headboard of the bed. Louis' breaths start to get deeper, like he’s trying to get it under control.

“That’s it,” Harry coos, “It’s alright. Keep breathing. Deep breaths, you’re fine.”

Maybe it’s Harry’s soothing words, or maybe he just cries himself out, but eventually Louis' grip loosens on Harry, and his breathing evens out. His exhales are still shaky, and he hiccups every time he tries to swallow.

“M’so sorry,” he mumbles, and falls silent. He catches himself, once again, talking to a deaf person out of their field of vision. He weakly brings a fist to his chest, signing his apology.

Harry shakes his head and presses a soft kiss to the top of Louis' head, and he doesn’t deserve it at all. “It’s okay.”

Louis' eyes get heavy, and he can’t help but let himself fall asleep, unable to pull away from the all encompassing love Harry has so selflessly given him, despite what he did.

☆

When Louis wakes up the next morning, he’s a considerably better mood. He’s got his favorite boy next to him, in a blissful slumber.

It’s strange, really, how something so horrible has let him open up so fully to the person he loves most and—

Oh. Louis— he. Louis loves Harry.

And _shit_ , it hits him so fully in that moment that the house might as well have collapsed on his chest. 

Louis watches the cliché scene unfold in front of him, the way the sun rises over the slopes and dips of Harry’s nose and cheekbones and jawline. It sharpens and softens his face in the most frustratingly juxtaposing way, and yeah, Louis couldn’t not love him if he tried. He’s beautiful.

Not only is he beautiful though, Louis realizes with a start, he’s so kind and selfless and wonderfully caring that it makes Louis jealous. He spent weeks angry at this boy for trying to show him something no one outside of family had ever bothered showing him. Louis feels bad for only now realizing it. But it’s hard to just love bits and pieces of Harry though, isn’t it. He has to love all of him.

Eventually Harry’s eyes flutter open, closer than Louis’s ever seen them, really. He can see the flecks of gold and blue, and he can see his reflection. Louis hopes Harry sees him in half the light that he sees Harry. (If that makes any sense.)

“Morning sunshine.” Louis’s too tired to lift his arms to sign, but he knows Harry understood when his laughs rumbles through the silence.

“You’re gonna be _extra_ cheeky now after that, aren’t you?”

“No one to blame but yourself,” Louis retorts. He’s finding new confidence now that he knows Harry really cares.

Harry’s laugh is a snort this time. “I suppose.”

“So this is it, then?” his voice is barely a whisper, like he wants it to be a secret from the rest of the house, “You’re all mine? Or am I yours?”

Harry rolls over onto his back, sighing at the ceiling, a content little smiling inching its way across his face. Louis doesn’t want to touch him, feeling like he’s on the outside of all of this, like Harry is a separate entity from a world he’s not worthy of joining. He doesn’t want to ruin the picture perfect scene in front of him. It’s dead silent, nothing but the distant chirps of birds and the beginning patter of rain.

“S’a little bit of both, innit?”

Louis likes that, that Harry is on the same page as him. His self-consciousness dissipates, and for once, he’s not afraid. He supposes that’s the point of being with someone like this. It’s cheesy, maybe, because Harry sort of makes him feel whole. Louis thinks that it’s possible he was half a person to begin with.

Harry looks at him, waiting for a response. “It’s a little bit of everything.” Louis feels a lump in his throat, once again all to grateful that Harry can’t hear his strained reply. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Harry’s got superpowers, though, and his smile grows from froggy to a full on blinding grin, his tired eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Don’t cry.” He rolls back over and wraps an arm around Louis' waist, snuggling into side, intertwining their legs. Louis thinks it’s more intimate than any amount of sex can hope to be. “Listen to me. I can’t hear you, so don’t talk or you’re gonna miss something.” Louis knows Harry can feel his heart-rate pick up under his temple, probably. “You’re so special and you don’t even realize it. You’re so full of life, and clever and caring and talented and smart and you’ve beat all the odds. And sometimes I feel so fucking inadequate in comparison.” Louis opens his mouth to speak, but true to his word, Harry keeps tumbling through his speech. “I want you to know that _you_ are the best thing that’s ever happened to _me,_ because you can do so much better than me without even trying. You gave me a purpose, sort of, because I was living such a boring life and honestly, I’ve never wanted anyone but you. It started off as a stupid schoolboy crush, sure, but now it’s so much more than that. I just— I love you, Louis. I love you a lot. And I hope I don’t scare you off but fuck— you’re everything to me and I’m lucky you picked me. Even if it’s for a little while.”

Louis’s left speechless for a good full minute, and his open mouth is what greets Harry when he re-opens his eyes.

_I’m_ _the lucky one,_ he signs sloppily. _No one will ever love me as much as you do. I think I’d like to keep you around more than a little while. Boosts my ego._ He’s trying to deflect his inevitable tears with humor, and it seems to work for both of them because Harry matches his smile with his own giggle.  


And later, when they’re grinning at each other over mugs of hot chocolate and nudging each other’s socked feet under the kitchen table, Louis thinks that maybe he could do this forever. He thinks he could definitely do with a constant cycle of Harry, and happiness, and the way Harry looks at him like he can do no wrong. He’s _happy_ , content with his life, finally, and he doesn’t think he could ask for anything better if he tried. He almost feels like he doesn’t deserve it, after what he did, but if his family could forgive him, if Harry could forgive him, maybe he can start learning how to forgive himself.

Harry helps him see the good in himself, whether he’s saying it or simply watching Louis do it art, like now, or practice football with inexplicable levels of fondness. It makes Louis feel like he finally has meaning, like he’s not what he’s been telling himself for the last seven, almost eight, years.

_I love you_ , he signs at Harry, whose attentive stare makes butterflies erupt in Louis. Not just in his stomach, they’re blooming in his fingertips and in his chest, making his heart flutter, too.

“I love you, too.”

And maybe this is all he’ll ever need.

**Author's Note:**

> YOUR FEEDBACK IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT :)


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